


Five times Hamish was sick and one time someone else was

by Aurora_swan



Series: There was a time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cancer, Character Death, Fluff, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Parentlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:16:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 48,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora_swan/pseuds/Aurora_swan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Begins at Hamish's birth and continues through childhood illnesses and other events. The last victim shall remain a secret for now. This is not a mpreg.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The teeny trooper

The phone rang three in the afternoon and Sherlock opened his eyes after the short rest. The room was empty, only him sprawled out on the sofa and the phone vibrating eagerly on the coffee table John was nowhere to be seen. Work then, Sherlock remembered slowly and blinked a couple of times to get rid of the thick veil that bothered his sight. With a loud sigh he reached out for the phone and looked at the name blinking away on the big screen.

Lynn Sawyer. Their seven months pregnant surrogate that they had carefully picket out amongst ten other women that needed money for education or simple survival. It was an awful thing the whole business in both Sherlock and John's mind, but also the only way to go to get a child of their own, and after all the girl they chose would be set for life after their payments. The detective didn't know if this was a good deed or not.

He answered the phone and brought it to his ear, expecting the weekly update of the so called 'Bump', the most discussed topic amongst friends and relatives and also the most exciting thing going on in Sherlock's life at the moment. But this wasn't an update.

"Yes." he murmured and cleared his throat that craved a cup of hot tea.

"Sherlock Holmes?" a male voice asked, by the sound of worry in his voice it sounded like someone close to Lynn, a brother perhaps.

"Speaking." he answered with a deep frown before sitting up in the sofa, already feeling his stomach tightened. With a quaking breath the man on the other side fought bravely to keep back the sobs.

"Lynn's at the hospital. Something happened." The detective was quickly on his feet, stepped into his shoes and never bothered to tie them before slipping into his coat. "They think the um... I don't know. Something tore and she was bleeding. She was rushed to emergency ce-ces... c-section." He took two steps a time down the stairs, not even thinking about his pyjamas or bed head. His son or daughter needed him, there were no time for modesty. "They..." the man continued. "They don't know if the baby will make it."

Sherlock hung up. He'd got the information he needed and he was obliged to forward it to John. He called as he hailed a cab and felt his heart pound behind his ribs, it was beating for his child and right now he'd never been so scared. How could something that yet never had a chance to exist have such a great impact on a grown man? There was no logic, no simple explanation to this and he took a deep breath to calm himself.

"You never call." a known voice chuckled on the other side. "You always text."

"Lynn's having an emergency c-section." Sherlock breathed heavily and rubbed a hand across his chest, almost feeling the pain these news caused his husband. John would take this harder than him, and Sherlock was taking this pretty hard. He heard the chair being ruffly pulled out from his husband's desk and the rattling keys and tapping on the computer. "I'm on my way there right now. Shall we meet at the reception?"

"Yeah.." John gulped. "Yeah."

 

 

 

John was already there when he arrived. He hardly recognised him. He was a bundle of tensed muscles, burning on the inside with fright and sorrow and light about to go out in his dark blue eyes. The sunburn had left him months ago but right now he was as pale as a living man could be. Sherlock gathered him in his arms and held him tight, chests heaving against each other and heart beating in sync like their bodies connected.

"Who called?" was the first thing John asked as his rough hands gripped Sherlock's messy curls. "What did they say?" Sherlock shook his head, he didn't want to be the one giving John the information, he was bad at this, bad at handling people.

"Something ripped." he answered with a low voice, just hoping that those words was the right one. His husband nodded and buried his face to the nape of his long neck, took a deep breath of the dark scent that only Sherlock carried and was blessed with. "Haven't anyone talked to you?" With a deep breath he shook his head and the detective carded a hand through his short hair.

"They can't give out any information yet. They don't know."

After what seemed like hours they parted and the doctor blinked like the world around him would fade and reality would creep back, like this wasn't real. Every breath taste foul his Sherlock's mouth, the air was full of disinfectant, plastic, detergent, paper, perfumes, ink, the list could go on forever if he wanted to, everything was so easy to notice when he was under stress and colours in the waiting room blurred together.

"Sherlock?" John sighed and let his head fall forward until his forehead rested on Sherlock's collarbone. "I'm scared."

They both new that one of John's deepest desires was to once in his life become a father, to have a little son or daughter to raise into a good human being. The world needed more of those. As years passed that dreamed seem to slip away from him, further and further until he would never reach it again. Things just always seemed to get in the way and slowly he'd started to accept that maybe it wasn't written in the stars. Girl after girl left him, man after man. The day he came to the acceptance that he would never become a father was the day he hadn't felt love for five years. Maybe he just was unlovable. Then he'd met Stamford that day in the park. Stars rearranged.

Talking Sherlock into having a baby had been surprisingly easy. Four years of a steady relationship, marriage, shared bank accounts and undying friendship the longing for a child started to grow once more and even if he was old he'd popped the question. Sherlock had said yes. John asked the same question two weeks later, just to be sure that Sherlock's decision wasn't a hasty one. The answer hadn't changed. The third time Sherlock had cursed and picked up the laptop, joined him on the sofa and opened several tabs. Suddenly they were looking for a surrogate mother.

And now they were here. Frightfully close to becoming parents. Or giving up. John didn't want to do this again.

Then a nurse stepped out of the big doors, dressed in white and looking like an angel with her blond locks draping over her shoulders. Sherlock could read worry, but not the news of death.

"Mr and doctor Watson-Holmes?" she asked with a soft voice and John lifted his heavy head from Sherlock's heaving chest, not daring to open his eyes just yet. "I'm here to inform you that the operation went well. Ms Sawyer will recover quickly and..." There was a short pause, painful and awful that tightened the iron claw around the couple's hearts and John opened his eyes to look up at the nurse. "You two are the parents of a little boy." Legs went out under the man and Sherlock caught him before he hit the floor, gathered him in his arms and held him tight. "He's a fighter, screamed loudly and kicked away. He'll just need some help breathing for the next two weeks or so and then he'll be ready to come home with you."

John cried. He didn't care who heard him or saw his reddened face. He just cried. These were tears that hadn't fallen before. He was used to tears, he'd shared them many times in his life until they'd suddenly stopped. Today was the first time he cried since Sherlock came back. Maybe it was the same tears. Relief, love, happiness. It felt good. Needed. And Sherlock's arms gave him just the support he needed right now. He was a father, they both were. They had a son, and even if he was teeny, too teeny, he still existed. John felt complete, like a puzzle that just had gotten it's last piece placed.

"John." Sherlock murmured with his perfect lips pressed to his temple. His voice was filled with hope and joy, not characteristic to the detective John had married but none the less unwelcome. "We've got a son." John bursted into manic laughter and nodded fanatically.

"About fucking time." he grinned and looked up at his husband, saw the tears clinging to his dark, long lashes and eyes glittering with an emotion Sherlock never felt before, he couldn't name it either, but it felt good.

 

 

 

The ward was warm and full of incubators. The light was dim and spread its yellow shine over the flailing, pink infants that missioned to grow, get healthy and strong. It was a new sight for the detective, he couldn't believe that all those little humans would one day grow up, be set free in the world and then bother him like everyone else. This ward was filled with fighting lives, struggling to become someone, to have their clean minds filled and bodies developed. He clung convulsively to John's hand, brushed his thump back and forth over his skin as they followed the nurse to the end of the room.

This moment would never be forgotten. In that incubator, amongst those blue and white blankets, beneath those tubes and IV's was their little, pink son. A hat pulled over his ears and a tape stuck to his little face to keep the tube to his nose and mouth in place, one for air, one for formula. He was so small, not bigger than Sherlock's hand and the teeny sparse toes attached to his feet wiggled in the warm air, showing how much life there was in him.

"Oh..." John gasped and pressed a hand to the warm plastic, tears falling freely down his cheeks. "Look at you." Sherlock smiled, not knowing what else to do. All he wanted to do was touch him, open those little windows to stick his hand in and rub a finger over that little hand that grabbed into one of the tubes.

"That's the smallest human I've ever seen." Sherlock murmured impressively and leaned forward to get a better look of his son. With a small chuckle he pressed his fingers to the glass. "Hello handsome. You're quite the fighter, aren't you?" Their little boy made a small sound that was choked by the respirator and squeezed and relaxed his hand just like he was waving and John giggled happily, waved back and felt like an idiot. It was merely a reflex but John saw it as a greeting. Their son's first hello.

"We've got something for him." the nurse smiled and put on a pair of white gloves. "All our prematures gets a little present." The reached into a small box and fished out a little green squid with two big, round eyes. "It's an experiment we're doing. The babies misses their cord so they hold on the the tubes, pulling and squeezing. So they're all getting a little squid now." She put her hand in, bent their little son's hand away from the tube and brought the little fists over to one of the eight arms on the squid. He latched on quickly, holding it tight and let out a small sigh.

It was beautiful. Their son was only a couple of minutes old and already doing an experiment of his own. Sherlock smiled proudly. What a perfect beginning. His husband sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"He's wonderful." he beamed and brought Sherlock's hand up to his face, kissed it dearly without looking away from the little baby. "He's truly amazing."

"He's perfect." Sherlock agreed, feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. The need for a child had never been there until John had brought it up. The decision had been simple, almost obvious. The first time John asked him Sherlock had asked himself something else. 'Why not?' He had a legacy to pass down. He looked at his son, the cleanest mind in the world ready to be filled what whatever John and Sherlock wanted. This little boy would become something astonishing. Something amazing. Something beautiful.

He turned to John, smiled wide and true and not knowing what to say, if there was anything that needed to be said. He brought his husband to his side and placed his head upon his, rested there for a moment as he took his all in and John chuckled happily.

"We've got him." he cried with his hand pressed to the glass, stroking his thumb back and forth as he imagined how soft his son's skin must be under his touch. "How I've waited." Their son fidgeted on his thin mattress and made a soft sound, both his hands grabbing onto the squid and his little feet kicking in the air. He sighed and looked up at the nurse who at the moment made herself busy by checkin vitals. "When can we um... make contact? Touch him. Hold him." He wanted nothing more than just that but he knew it would take time.

"In a week he wont be in the risk for infections anymore." she informed them. "Then you'll be able to touch him and if he's strong enough we might be able to disconnect the respirator. Maybe, just maybe you'll be able to hold him then. But for now we'll have to wait." John nodded, this wait would kill him and this week would be sufferable. But he could do it, for his son. The nurse picked up the chart and looked it though quickly while Sherlock for the first time reached out and touched the glass, feeling the warmth and longing to be able to touch him. "Is there a name to add?" They both looked up from the little boy when they heard the question and stared at the nurse who'd made herself ready with ready with a pen. "So we know what to call him."

John opened his mouth but not a word left him. The hadn't planned any names yet, not even discussed it. He hadn't even had any in mind.

"Hamish." Sherlock said and John jerked where he stood, turned to his husband with teared eyes and a shocked expression. "Let's call him Hamish." He didn't know were the urge came from, but no name seemed more fitting than John's middle name. Family was one had in the end after all, why not cary n the legacy of names then. Hamish was also a name one could carry with pride, just like they would carry him with pride.

All John could do was nod as new tears and sobs forced their way out and once again Sherlock gathered him in his arms, kissed the top of his head and sighed happily. He might now know exactly what was going on inside his blogger but he knew that the joy he was feeling was as big it was ever going to get and Sherlock had to agree. The pride he was feeling right now beat every case and mystery he'd ever solved. This was his proudest hour.

 

 

 

Baby Hamish fought for his life like a brave little trooper. John visited every day before at after work, just standing by the warm incubator with his hand caressing the glass while his son pulled the arms on the little squid, kicking his feet and squirming in his blanket. Even if he couldn't touch him yet he felt close and connected to this little soul. He had high hopes for him, but then the thought of that he might loose his son was a thought he never turned to.

Sherlock turned up once and a while when his mind let him go. He would join John's side with not as much as a word, never being noticed as he slipped into the ward and sat down beside his husband. This had happened three days of seven, but John didn't blame him. Seeing something so small and fragile fighting for his life was hard, maybe Sherlock avoided it as much as he could.

It wasn't until later that John found out that Sherlock had actually been there every day on his own while he was at work. That would always bring a smile to John's lips.

Days seven was the day Hamish would be disconnected from the respirator and tubes. Both of them took a free day and arrived at the hospital together, none of them was gonna miss this. There was no discussion of who was going to hold him first, it was naturally John who was having him in his arms first and Sherlock just shook his head when John tried to protest. He was the one who'd waited the longest, Sherlock could hold on a bit longer.

They sat together in a room painted in soft colours, drapes closing out the bright light of the sun and a big sofa standing by the wall. Sherlock pulled John down beside him and grasped his hand. The anticipation was going through the roof, they couldn't believe that today would be the day when they would be able to touch their son. John had this morning showered three times, anything to take himself out of the risk of infecting the small infant that soon would be resting in his arms. They were covered in disinfectant and Sherlock's curls were messy since he couldn't use his oils to sort them out. No perfumes were allowed on this ward and right now they smelled more of themselves than anything else, no aftershaves, no deodorants, nothing what so ever.

All they needed to do now was wait. Sherlock squeezed his hand occasionally, just to remind him that he was there and John turned to him with an uncertain smile before falling into his embrace.

"D'you think he'll have your curls or my waves?" he asked suddenly while resting his head on the bony shoulder.

"It doesn't matter." Sherlock murmured and kissed his temple. "I don't care whose DNA he has, he's ours." That made John smile, whoever this child belonged to genetically he was all theirs. Then at last the door opened and the nurse from yesterday entered while pushing the incubator in front o her.

"Good morning." she sang happily and John straightened himself in the sofa, wiped his already clean hands on his trousers and sighed nervously. "Ready to hold the little poppet?"

More than ready, was John's thought and he nodded happily and held back the tears that wanted to fall. The glass container where there son had lived for a week now was finally opened and she reached down to unplug all the tubes. With a small cry the little boy made his first real sound and John felt his heart clench of desire to hold him. The bundle left the soft mattress as the woman lifted him up and he wailed in protest as the warmth left him. "Here we go." she smiled and hurried across the floor to place the little one in John's waiting arms. The bundle seemed to just fit in his embrace, his weight was just what his muscles needed and and the warmth was just perfect to ease his hurting heart.

"Hello." he smiled while his son cried in sheer panic, face bundled up and red as the screams just welled out of him and John caressed his little cheek with his finger. "There you are." Finally he could touch his son's soft skin and he took his little hand as tears fell. The cries started to calm and turned into soft grunts, Sherlock had never seen something so pretty. He reached out and grabbed the little foot that'd slipped out of the blanket and he felt the soft skin.

"He's beautiful." he chirped and pressed a small kiss to John's temple. "I think he's got your nose." John saw that too and broke down into a mess of tears and snot. That was indeed his nose and he bowed his head to kiss it. He smelled good, not at all like hospital or chemicals, just like baby. Hamish was a beautiful creature in every way.

John sighed loudly and looked up at Sherlock who quickly wiped his wet eyes, even he couldn't hold back the tears and John leaned forward.

"Take him." he whispered. His husband didn't protest, he gathered the small boy in his arms and held him close to his chest. The smile that formed on his lips nearly hurt his cheeks and he stroke the tip of his fingers over Hamish's features.

"Well, you're rather tiny, aren't you?" he questioned happily and let out a big breath. "I'm surprised to say the least." John sniffled and smothered a hand over the little blue cap, carefully peeling it off and they saw the dark hair from Lynn, nearly the same shade as Sherlock's and the detective beamed when he saw it. There would be some resemblance between them after all, maybe he would even get her curls. "He's quite something."

"He is, isn't he." John chuckled and wiped his tears. "I can hardly believe he's coming home with us soon. Can you imagine?" Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip and twinned some of the silky strands of hair, sighed once more before glancing at John.

"He's gonna be a handful." he chuckled.

"I wouldn't call that a problem." John giggled and took the little hand again, kissed it carefully before sniffing the soft hair. This child could scream, throw tantrums, kick and protest all he wanted and John wouldn't care. As long as he existed nothing about him would ever bother him.


	2. It's cured with magic

The small boy ran around the flat, laughing and shrieking in utter joy and Sherlock would never understand how nothing could make him so happy. That boy was never in a bad mood, never cried without a reasonable reason, had a great acceptance for rules even if he wasn't older than three. The detective was surprised how easy parenthood could be. Maybe it was their raising that had made it so or maybe they should just consider themselves lucky to have such a good son that listened.

The dark, wavy hair was wet and strands divided on the boy's head after the bath as he flew by with the wooden plane that John had bought him after the mysterious interest for aircrafts, none of them knew where he'd gotten the idea from. The plane flew through the air while Hamish made the sounds of engines and Sherlock smiled as he kept an eye on him while looking through police reports. Today was was the third day in Hamish's life that they were alone together. It wasn't often that Sherlock took him since work always came in between and secretly so he didn't enjoy having that responsibility, it scared him a bit but he knew he had to learn and as months passed it got easier.

"Daddy!?" a little voice shouted eagerly and hurried across the floor. "Look!" He showed him the wooden plane that he'd seen a thousand times before but always had to look impressed about.

"Oh my, look at that." Sherlock grinned and gathered the boy in his arms, put his down on his lap and joined his little hand on the plane, swayed it back and forth a bit while looking at the fading colours. "Where is the plane going, handsome?"

"Granny!" his son giggled and squirmed in his arms, ready to be put down again so the journey could continue through the flat. "Where's papa?" The detective turned back to the laptop and opened a new tab to look for something interesting on the new-site.

"Papa's working." he answered and heard how his son continued with is game just as he found something interesting. A simple mystery, easily solved by just some rearrangements that might just free someone who'd been arrested while being innocent. His head sunk into all the deductions and whatever was going on in the flat was quickly forgotten.

It wasn't until a loud crash was heard that Sherlock jerked upright in the chair looking out over the empty room. The awful noise was soon followed by a small cry and Sherlock flew up from the chair with his stomach turning in worry when he heard where the sound came from. He hurried out to the landing and looked down the steep stairs to see the little boy laying crumpled on the first landing, crying outright with the wooden plane cracked beside him.

"Oh god!" Sherlock quaked and hurried down the stairs to pick him up from the hard floor expecting the worst. "Hamish! What happened?" He knew exactly what had happened, the journey to granny wasn't as much a game as a real visit and Sherlock swallowed as he gathered the shaking, screaming boy in his arms. The small arms wrapped around his neck and Hamish buried his face to his shoulder. "Are you alright? Where does it hurt?"

"My head!" Hamish screamed and Sherlock fell down on the last step, just holding him and feeling the guilt grow. He carded a hand through his hair, parting his wet hair to see if he found any bruises or wounds when Hamish suddenly twitched and gave a painful shout. Sherlock's fingers had found something wet and swollen on the back of his head and as he pulled back he saw the blood on the tip of his slim finger. The guilt was quickly mixed with fear. Then he heard the quick steps in the stairs around the corner and Mrs Hudson turned up like a guardian angel in her purple dress. She saw the scared detective swaying back and forth with little Hamish tightly held in his arms and the drops of blood on the boy's light blue shirt and she grasped her heart.

"What happened?" she asked with a trembling voice that hardly overpowered the cries and screams coming from Hamish.

"He fell down the stairs." Sherlock sighed nervously and held Hamish's little head to his shoulder. "Call John. My phone's in my right pocket." The old woman didn't hesitate but fell to her knees fumbled in his pocket to get a hold of his phone while the detective panicked as his son started to go pale. This was not good. "Hamish?" he whispered with his voice on the brink of cracking. "What d'you feel? Are you dizzy?" There was no answer, only the loud sobs and cries and Sherlock rubbed his back while kissing his temple. "It'll be okay. Don't worry." He closed his eyes and wished he could take the pain away from his on, seeing his son in such agony was tore his insides and he didn't know what to do to help. In the background of all the screaming he heard Mrs Hudson speaking to John over the phone and Sherlock could only imagine the anger that man would come home with. John would never let Sherlock take care of Hamish on his own again.

"Papa's on his way, Hamish." Mrs Hudson comforted and rubbed his thin arm that was wrapped around the detective's neck. "I'll get you some ice." She hurried down the stairs and Sherlock was left alone with his little boy that still screamed in pain. Slowly he rocked back and forth while hushing him gently.

"I've got you, Hamish. Don't worry." he whispered and little by little the loud shouts faded, the cried and sobs silenced and soon they were nothing more than soft grunts mixed with hiccups. His shirt was now soaked with tears and mucus from both nose and mouth and the blood continued to tickle down the boy's neck and shirt. The wound had begun to swell and Sherlock feared a concussion. Maybe they needed a hospital.

"It hurts." he whined and sneaked a hand into Sherlock's curls, tugged them lightly as he pressed himself closer to his chest. "Take it away."

"Let's think about something else for a second." Sherlock murmured and hummed silently. "D'you remember what me and papa promised to get you this summer?" With a small grunt his son nodded and sniffled.

"A paddling pool." he mumbled and scooted his head a little closer to his father's neck. "A red one, to have in the backyard."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled. "A paddling pool. And we'll need to buy you some trunk to, huh? You've gotten so big your old one doesn't fit anymore. D'you want a pattern on them?" He nodded again and at the same moment Mrs Hudson snuck around the corner with a plaided kitchen towel stuffed with ice.

"Aeroplanes." Hamish answered while Sherlock reached out for the cold bundle, he laughed a little at the request before carefully placing the ice to the wound and Hamish flinched on his lap. "Ow! Don't do that!"

"It'll take away the bad pain." Sherlock whispered and rocked them again. "Just wait a second. Aeroplanes you said? Big, flying aeroplanes. That sound good. And then you can splash away all you want in that pool. And we can bring out all those toys you've got in the bathtub and the ones that you and papa brought to the beach that time, d'you remember those?" Hamish mumbled something incoherent and Sherlock leaned a little closer. "What?" The boy lifted his little head and sniffled as he looked up at Sherlock, giving his father a real fright when he saw the pupils in different sizes.

"I feel funny." he whined and a tinge of green mixed with that pale colour in his face and the detective felt his blood go cold.

"Mrs Hudson, get a bucket. Hurry." The old woman was put in motion again and Sherlock cupped his son's little face. "Deep breaths, handsome. And don't throw up on daddy, aim for the floor." Small whimpers left him and his head swayed back and forth as Sherlock tried to hold it in place with the ice still placed on the wound. "Look at me, Hamish. C'mon, look at daddy." Hamish's eyes flickered as they tried to focus and Sherlock bowed his head to get to his level.

"I feel really funny." he croaked and made a terrible sound that only meant one thing. Sherlock acted quickly and leaned his son over the floor to let the bile and earlier snack leave him without making any bigger mess. Horrible coughs and groaned tore through his throat and the detective pulled him back to his chest to let his rest his weary head.

"You'll be fine, love." he murmured into his hair. "Everything will be okay."

The front door bursted open and soon the quick steps from well known shoes and John appeared around the corner with snow in his hair and on his shoulders, eyes wide in panic and panting.

"What happened?" he asked even if Mrs Hudson already explained it over the phone. He fell to his knees beside them and saw the vomit next to them. "Jesus. Let me see." The hand was warm around Sherlock's wrist and he removed the blooded towel from the wound so John could have a look. The doctor pulled a face when he saw the swell and tutted worriedly.

"Oh, love." he sighed and put the ice back and then rubbed his son's neck. "Let's bring you upstairs so we can have a better look at that, okay."

Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around the boy and stood up when Hamish cried out in pain. They climbed the stairs and the detective kept humming comforting words in his ear, listened to the tired grunts and sobbing hiccups. By John's orders he sat down on the sofa while he fetched the first aid kit and Hamish started to cry loudly again, Sherlock didn't know what to do anymore. The only thing on his mind at the moment was how devastated Hamish would be when he heard that his plane was broken.

"Tell me if you need to throw up again." Sherlock murmured into the dark hair.

"Now." Hamish whimpered and lifted his head, stared at him with half lidded eyes that flickered beneath his thick lashes. "Now." Sherlock flew up from the sofa, stepped over the table and ran to the kitchen, barely made it to the sink before Hamish vomited a second time without making a big mess.

"I feel really bad." a small voice whimpered as Sherlock put him down on the counter, the small fists holding on tight to his jacket. "Really bad."

"I know, handsome." he murmured and let his head fall to his chest. "Bur papa's here to make it better." In the blink of an eye John hurried cross the floor with the big green bag in his hands and dropped it on the counter when Hamish threw up in the sink a second time.

"Oh jesus." he groaned worriedly and cupped his cheek while Sherlock held him steady. "Let me have a look at you, love. Look into my eyes." Tears clung to his dark lashes and his dark blue eyes simmered in them. John looked at him sharply, examined his stare and saw the uneven pupils, nodded distinctively before opening his bag. "Okay, love. We're gonna take a little trip to the hospital, alright?" Sherlock felt all the blood leave his head at that point and his grip around Hamish tightened, he'd really done it this time. Somehow John must have sensed his worry, his husband rubbed his arm with a warm hand and gave a small but calming smile. "Nothing to worry about, just doing a quick checkup and then we'll be home before granny's made dinner, okay?" Those words made Sherlock's heart feel a little lighter, maybe the situation wasn't that bad after all. He hoped it wasn't.

 

 

 

The ride to the E&R seemed to take forever and John kept prodding the little boy as he was about to fall asleep in Sherlock's secure arms. Hamish twitched for each poke, hummed and groaned in deep pain from his wound that still had the cold ice pressed to it and pressed his cheek to Sherlock's chest as they talked to him. They kept asking him ridiculous questions that weirdly enough seemed hard to answer. His head pulsated and he stared at the plastic bag in John's hands, he just needed to blink if he needed to use it. A loud sigh left him and his eyes slipped closed.

The next time he opened them lights were shining bright around him and the smells of hospital were all around and he buried his face a little deeper into his father's shirt.

"Dad?" he croaked and then there was a horrible pinch in the back of his head that made him cry out in pain.

"It's okay! It's okay." his daddy murmured and he felt him squeeze his hand. "It's almost over."

"Stop it!" he cried and felt how his scalp tightened in some odd pressure that made him sick to his stomach all over again. "Daddy!"

"It's just the anaesthesia, handsome." Sherlock murmured. "It'll take the pain away. I promise."

Eventually the pain faded, but only in the wound, the rest of his head pulsated dangerously and the hands petting and stroking didn't do much to calm him. John looked up at his husband and saw the horrible guilt nesting in his wonderful features as the doctor stitched Hamish up. It was something that John hadn't seen in him in a long time, guilt was rare for Sherlock.

Four stitches were needed in the back of his head and Hamish cried silently thought the whole thing once the anaesthesia kicked in and took the worst pain away. He was cleaned up and plastered and then free to go home, just like John had promised him Sherlock hand't let him go since this started.

They grabbed their things in silence and John dressed his husband in the coat so he didn't have to let go of little Hamish whose sobs slowly lessened. John wrapped the little boy in the blanket and before they left the hospital they took a short trip passed the pharmacy to get some liquid paracetamol to mix with yoghurt or jam to ease their son's pain for the upcoming days. The store was a ten second walk and in the same building as the emergency and John went in on his own, leaving Sherlock outside while he browsed the shelves for everything they needed and more. It was a quick visit and with two small bags in his hands he stepped out of the store and found Sherlock out on the kerb, swaying back and forth to calm Hamish that was crying himself to sleep with a hard grip around his father's scarf.

"There we go." John chimed and looked at his husband who'd been awfully quiet since he found them on the stairs. He knew that the detective felt guilt after what'd happened, but at the moment John started to understand how much. The man was really blaming himself and dangerously so. If John didn't do something to fix this Sherlock might never allow himself to take care of Hamish again without fearing that something like this would happen once more. "Are you okay, love?" Sherlock sighed and stepped over to the side of the road to hail a cab, looking more sad than John had ever seen him before and he hurried to catch up. "Sherlock?" The detective turned to him, brows furrowed and adams apple bobbing by the nervous swallowing. The look on his face made the doctor's stomach tighten and he wrapped his hand quickly around his wrist. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." he whimpered with a small voice and cleared his throat before looking away. He couldn't meet John's eyes right now. "I should have noticed." John frowned.

"Noticed what?" he asked and rubbed his thumb back and forth over Sherlock's skin.

"This shouldn't have happened." he quaked and screwed his eyes shut before burying his nose in Hamish's dark hair, the boy seemed to have fallen asleep at last. "I am so sorry." The doctor shook his head and smiled comfortingly.  
"Sherlock. This wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was." Sherlock fumed and wrapped the blanket a little tighter around the sleeping boy. "For once when I take responsibility for him this happens. And you weren't even surprised when you came home."  
"Sherlock!" John yelled to interrupt his wherever this was going. "Shut up, okay. The reason I wasn't surprised is because these things happen. It might just as well been me looking after him." He stood up on his toes to press a kiss to his husband's cheek. "And I have to say that if our roles had been reversed today, I don't think I would have been able to care for him as well as you." Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes.

"There's no need to lie, John." he fumed. "You're a doctor. Things would have turned out much better?"

"Sherlock." John sighed and cupped his face. "Listen. I might be a doctor, but when I found you on the stairs with Hamish and saw how worried you were, that's all I needed to know how deeply you really care about him. You could never have taken care of the situation better than you did and that makes you a great father." The detective furrowed his brow and sighed loudly.

"D'you really think so?" he asked and leaned into John's wonderful touch.

"Of course I do!" John nearly shouted in the middle of the street. "Are you crazy? You're a great father, just look at him." He nodded at Hamish whose face was till swollen after the hours of crying and was now snoring lightly against Sherlock's shoulder. "He hasn't let go of you a single second since this happened, I think that means something. Don't you?" The detective gave a very shaky laugh that any second now could result in tears and John embraced them both and held them tight. "He loves you Sherlock. We both do. And none of us blames you. I promise you, we're both thankful for that you were there when this happened."

With a loud sigh Sherlock finally found relief, the guilt left him and he kissed his husband lovingly before looking up at him again.

"Thank you." he murmured and turned to Hamish that stirred in his arms. He pried an eye open and looked at them both in exhaustion.

"Hey." John whispered and rubbed his neck, kissed his chubby cheek and fingers. "How are you feeling, love?" The boy blinked and crawled a little closer to Sherlock who reassured his arms around him.

"Wanna go home." he squeaked and tugged his father's scarf.

"We are." Sherlock promised and swayed back and forth. "And we're gonna get you into bed and have a little sleep, and tomorrow we'll have pancakes for breakfast and spend all day on the sofa, watching movie and have some candy, just like when you had that fever. Sounds good?" Hamish blinked and watched them both a little, the concussion was making him very dizzy and things didn't really seem real around him.

"Yes." he sighed eventually. "The fishes."

"We can watch Finding Nemo." Sherlock answered with a soft smile. "Of course. Anything you want." He closed his eyes again and sighed loudly, making himself comfortable on Sherlock's shoulder before he slowly fell asleep again and the detective looked up at John to get some sort of proof of that what he'd just done was right. His doctor smiled lovingly and squeezed his arms with a warm hand before standing on his toes again and this time pressed his kiss to Sherlock's lips.

"Sound like a plan." he smiled and got back on the mission to hail a cab again.

 

 

 

The next morning started with a loud cry and Sherlock jolted in bed and forced his eyes open and was met by the beige roof. Another loud cry was heard from his his right and he turned his head and saw his little son squirm on the mattress with hit face about to be buried in the pillow.

"Hamish?" He wrapped his hands around the boy's wait and pulled him up on his chest to hold him as he cried. "It's okay, handsome. I've got you."

"My head!" Hamish cried violently and sobbed loudly to his chest. "My head!" As on cue John got out of bed with a loud groan and pulled the t-shirt over his head.

"I'm getting him some yoghurt." he sighed and padded out of the room. Yoghurt, the new codeword for medicine Sherlock figured and sat up on the bed, hushing the crying boy as he placed some pillows behind his back so he could lean back to the bed frame.

"It's okay, handsome. Papa's getting you some breakfast and that'll take away the pain, okay?" The little boy squirmed on his chest and grabbed on to a handful of curls, screamed in pain and the anger because of it and Sherlock kissed his temple. The doctor hurried back to the bedroom with a small bowl in his hand and a glass of water that he placed on Sherlock beside table before turning to Hamish. Carding a hand through his hair as far away from the wound as possible he kissed his cheek and took his little hand.

"Eat some breakfast, love. Just a little yoghurt and it'll feel better. I promise."

"I don't wanna!" Hamish cried and quickly regretted the shook of his head since it sent sparks of pain onto every part of his head, made his eyes pulse in pain and neck throb.

"Oh c'mon, love." John sang with a smiled and sat down on the edge. "It's magic yoghurt. It'll make you feel better." But the little boy wasn't ready to believe that, he bundled up his face and let out a long whine that hurt both his fathers and Sherlock curled around him.

"Daddy says there isn't magic!" Hamish yelled and buried his face even closer to Sherlock's neck.

"I know, handsome, but your papa's right. This is magic yoghurt. At it'll make the hurt disappear. I promise." With some loud hiccups the boy lifted his head and looked up at him with swollen eyes and quivering bottom lip. Slowly Sherlock turned him around on his lap so John could feed him the strawberry yoghurt. Hamish gave his papa a tired look and leaned back to Sherlock's chest, just planning to go with whatever they were doing since he was to tired to argue. His papa took the bowl and spooned up some of the pink yoghurt.

"Just a couple of spoons." he said and brought the first one to his mouth. "And then you'll feel better." Hamish opened his mouth and accepted the spoon while looking angrily at him, if this didn't work he was going to yell at him. He pulled a face when he felt the odd, gritty taste and gave a small whine.

"It's really yucky." he complained and swallowed reluctantly.

"It's because it's magic." Sherlock lied and rubbed his arm. "Magic things doesn't taste good." John gave him another spoon that he swallowed without letting it touch his tongue. "Good boy. It's not that bad, is it?"

"Yes it is." he complained but felt how his head started to go fuzzy, ever so slowly the pain started to fade. "But.. it's getting better."

"That's good." John smiled and brushed some of his hair away from his forehead. "Told you it was magic." Hamish gave him a little laugh in response and took the big hand that rested on his chest. "One more spoon and then we're done." He swallowed the rest of the foul goo and cleaned his mouth with the water. "Very good, love. D'you wanna sleep some more now or d'you wanna watch some movies?"

"Movies." he answered quickly reached out his short arms for John. "Take me there." His papa laughed and picked him up from Sherlock's lap, wrapped him in the blanket and held him tight. "And daddy promised candy." The detective laughed heartedly and got out of the bed with a wide smile on his lips.

"I believe I did." he smiled and wrapped the silky robe around his shoulders. "Is there any particular that comes to mind?" The boy though long and hard as they made their way out to the sitting room.

It was a nice autumn morning, sun was shining through the dirty windows and made soft rays in the dust flying around in the flat. The rooms smelled of detergent and Sherlock understood that mrs Hudson had cleaned whatever she could after Hamish's vomiting, he made a mental note to give her something in return.

"Butterscotch." Hamish said suddenly after John had made a nest for them on the sofa that wound make it comfortable for them all. "And popcorn."

"That sounds delicious." John smiled and carefully brought him down on the cushions, placed his pulsing head on the softest pillow he could find and draped the blanket over him. "Me and daddy will just make some tea and breakfast for ourselves and then we'll watch some movies, okay." Hamish blinked in response and gave him a crocked smile that mirrored a playful Sherlock. "Don't move to much, okay. Call us if you feel weird. Okay?" The boy's head sunk into the pillow as he relaxed and his little hands grabbed onto the blanket.

"Okay." he responded and closed his eyes meanwhile John and Sherlock leaved him for the kitchen.

"Strawberry flavoured, my arse." John muttered and picked up Hamish's medicine from the counter. "Just taste this." He popped up the cap and filled it to the line before reaching it out to Sherlock who at the moment filled two cups with boiling water. With a look that John only'd seen while he made experiments Sherlock reached out and took the little white cap containing the clear liquid, stared at it for a second before giving it a sniff. He brought it to his lips and swallowed it only to bundle up his face in a disgusted expression.

"That is ghastly." he croaked and tried to clear his throat. "Have the manufacturers even tasted strawberries?" John laughed and gave his shoulder a small kiss before dropping the teabags into the water.

"I doubt it." he smiled. "And you, my dear, are eating breakfast today. Even if I have to force it down your throat. I'm not letting you leave the flat until you've eaten a respectable portion of either cereals or porridge." The detective gave a annoyed groan and dropped sugar into his tea. "I'm serious, you ate nothing yesterday."  
"I had some toast."

"You had nothing yesterday more than a toast." John corrected himself firmly and turned to his husband with a very serious face but mixed with concerned love. "Please. If we're gonna learn our son a healthy way of living he needs you as a role model as well when it comes to eating. I will not stand for him not doing something because you don't." Sherlock chuckled and looked up from his cup, pressed a kiss to John's nose and sighed merrily.

"Alright." he smiled and took his cup. "Make it for me and I'll eat it."

"Porridge?" John asked and rubbed his waist.

"What ever floats your boat." Sherlock shrugged and took his cup to the sitting room to join little Hamish that laid flat on the sofa. "Hey, handsome."

"I wanna lie in you lap." the little boy squeaked in both pain and desired closeness. "Please."

"Of course." the detective smiled and put away the cup to lift the little head and the big pillow under it as carefully as he could and the boy flinched. "Careful now. No sudden movements." He sat down and placed the pillow in his lap, felt the heaviness of Hamish's upper body that now was levered and suddenly the little boy looked very pale with a small tinge of green. This could only mean one thing. "John! Get a bucket!" The sounds of cutlery falling to the floor came from the kitchen and how John messed around under the sink was soon followed by his hurried steps into the sitting room with the red bucket in his hand and not a moment to soon. Hamish dry heaved painfully over the bucket, made awful noised while Sherlock held him and soon the yoghurt left him together with the medicine and John sighed in disappointment. Now they needed to start over again.

"It's okay, handsome." Sherlock murmured as tears started to fall down those chubby cheeks again. "It's nothing to worry about." With one last heave the first cry forced its way up his throat and he was gathered in his daddy's arms again. "There we go." he whispered and wiped the tears. "Don't worry."

"My head!" he sobbed and pressed a hand to the temple that wasn't resting against Sherlock's chest. "It really hurts."

"I know." John pitied and rubbed his clammy forehead. "But don't worry, love. It'll be over soon."

"I want it to be over now!" Hamish cried angrily and gave a small cough. "I don't like it!"

"Of course you don't" Sherlock smiled sadly and cradled his head carefully so it wouldn't move or wobble around to much. "But I think it's time for some more magic."

"Not yoghurt." Hamish cried angrily and Sherlock giggled.

"No, not yoghurt." he agreed and rubbed his warm chest through the blanket. "Let's try a spell, okay? One that we both must say."

"Oh, this sounds thrilling." John smiled happily but couldn't avoid giving Sherlock a wondering look, which Sherlock quickly ignored.

"Are you ready, handsome?" he asked and the little boy only blinked in his arms, in to much pain to answer him properly. "Okay, we're gonna do some magic now that my mother did on me when I was your age. First, close your eyes." Hamish gave him a frown, John did too. "C'mon. It's not gonna work if you're looking." Reluctantly the little boy closed his eyes and sobbed silently in his arms. "Now, imagine the Watson's summer house. You know, where we spent our vacation." He did and saw the white house with tile roof, surrounded by tall trees and the little pond in the middle of the yard. "Can you see it?"

"Yes." he cried angrily.

"Good. Imagine you're there, walking through the garden, amongst all the flowers and now walk over to the green furnitures in the bungalow. Are you there."

"Yes." Hamish sobbed and started to get annoyed by all this, but the vibrations from his father's voice had its impact on him. It felt good, but he had no idea where this story was going.

"Very good. Now you'll have to do something really odd. Can you tell what shape your headache's got." He frowned, it only made the pain worse.

"What?"

"Imagine that your headache has a shape. What shape would it be?" He tired to feel it, tilted his head a little to the side to see if it had any edges or weird shapes.

"It's a pentagon." he complained, maybe it was that shape since he's learn last week what a pentagon really was or maybe it seemed very fitting on the pain.

"Imagine that you're holding that pentagon in your hands." Sherlock murmured. "It's a big pentagon, isn't it?"

"It's really heavy." Hamish complained angrily and saw the shape in his little hands while standing in the white bungalow with green furnitures.

"I know it is. Let's place it on the table, okay?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now you need to do something very scary. You'll need to light it on fire." Hamish frowned again, already forgotten about the pain that it caused. "There's a matchbox in your pocket. Light it on fire."

Sherlock looked up at John who shook his head with a big smile on his lips, he couldn't believe that his husband was using placebo treatment, but he didn't dare to question him. After all it was, as he'd said, very intriguing.

"Is it burning?"  
"Yes." Hamish sobbed and squeezed John's hand, Sherlock rubbed his temple and wiped his tears away.

"That's good. Can you see how it's turning into black ashes?" Hamish only hummed in response and Sherlock hummed right back. "Now when the fire has stopped, blow it away. Blow all the ash away. Take a deep breath." He did. "And blow." The boy let out the breath in a long, loud blow until his lungs was out of air and when they were Sherlock rubbed his chest again. "Now, open your eyes." The dark blue eyes fluttered open, tears had stopped welling and the sobbing seemed to be over and he looked up at Sherlock with big eyes. "How does it feel?" It was odd to say the least, Hamish tilted his head a little and blinked a couple of times to test it and then he looked up at Sherlock again, almost scared.

"Better." he said sceptically and Sherlock chuckled.

"Magic." he murmured and Hamish stared. "What did I tell you?"

"Magic." he replied and gave a small laugh. "Cool."

"Yes." John agreed from where he sat on his knees. "Very cool."


	3. Just let him in

”Papa?” John tore his gaze from the book page and looked up at the six-year-old son standing in the dark doorway, propping himself up to the wall. ”I don’t feel very good.” The book landed on the small table beside the armchair as the doctor got up. 

”What’s wrong?” he asked and padded across the floor to take a closer look at the boy who’d just woken up. It was late, Hamish couldn’t have been asleep more than an hour and his dark, blue eyes were still foggy and sniffling tiredly. John fell to his knees before him and cupped his face, felt the heat boiling under his skin and he tutted miserably. ”Oh, love. Looks like you’re about to be sick.” With a loud groan Hamish fell forward until his head rested on his papa’s shoulder. 

”I don’t wanna be sick.” he moaned and wrapped his arms around John’s neck. ”Please, make it go away.” John gave him a small laugh and lifted him from the floor. 

”I would if I could, dear.” he smiled and swayed him back and forth as he made his way over to his and Sherlock’s bedroom. ”Let’s get out my bag so we can have a look at you.” Hamish hummed to his shoulder and drew small circles at the back of his head. ”D’you wanna play with the stethoscope?” The boy nodded and mumbled something into his skin that John couldn’t hear. He carefully placed him on the big bed, rubbed his forehead and saw how pale and clammy he was getting. ”Does it hurt anywhere?” Hamish took a second to feel what was going on in him and blinked wearily. 

”A little in my tummy and my head.” he sighed and took a deep breath. ”Might be fatal.” 

”Fatal?” John laughed and reached under the bed to find his health kit. ”Since when did you become a doctor, ey?” The small boy giggled and fixed the pillow under his head to prop himself up. To his liking John pulled out the stethoscope of his bag and placed it in his hands.  
”I wanna listen to your heart.” he said eagerly and put the plugs in his ears. He reached out the cold knob and his father gave a small giggle before leaning forward to let it rest to his chest. The blue eyes stared at his chest, slightly wailed by the tired fogginess and John carded a hand through his hair.  
”Can you hear anything?” he asked and started searching for the thermometer. Hamish nodded and pressed it to the other side. ”What about there?” Once again he nodded and then pressed it to his own chest. ”It’s pretty silent there, isn’t it?” he joked and Hamish giggled before shaking his head. Then something cold nudged his lip and he looked up at John who held the thermometer. ”Open up.” It was slipped under his tongue and he sucked on the plastic and metal while John played with the dark waves. ”Why don’t you listen to this?” he asked and took the knob and pressed it to Hamish’s forehead. ”Can you hear anything?” He shook his head and John smirked. ”I knew you had nothing in there. Completely empty.” The boy started to giggle in time with that the device beeped and John pulled it out to have a look on the numbers. ”Oh, handsome.” he tutted. 

”Is it fatal?” he asked without any sort of worry and John chuckled. 

”Not even close.” he answered and put it back in the bag. ”It’s a little high, but I think you’ll manage. I’m gonna get you some warm milk so you can go back to sleep again, alright?” 

”I wanna come with you.” Hamish croaked and reached out his arms to be picked up, the last thing he wanted was to be left alone in this room filled with reserved bugs and books smelling like his grandfather’s house. ”Please.” There was no way he could resist that little demanding face. He wrapped the blanket around the small body until he was a tight cocoon and brought him to his chest. Kissing his face he felt the terrible heat boiling inside him and he hummed in concern as they made their way to the kitchen. 

”Where’s daddy?” Hamish asked with a weak voice and started pulling his ear like he had an itch. 

”At the lab.” John answered. ”I think he’s lost track of time. He said he would be back before dinner but you know how he is when he’s concentrating too hard. 

”Hm.” Hamish mumbled and nodded with his face buried to the nape of John’s neck. ”I wanna call him.” 

”Oh, I’ve tried, love.” John sighed and placed him on the cold counter that made him shiver again and the pain shot out his loins and made him heavy. ”I guess his phone is on silent. I think he’ll be home soon. You know how he is.” Hamish nodded and wrapped his arms around himself, almost screaming as his cold fingers snuck under his armpits to give them some warmth. In the corner of his eye he saw how much his son was shaking and he looked up from the pot that soon would heat the milk. ”Oh, love. You’re freezing. C’mere.” Quickly he wrapped his arms around him again and cradled him like the infant he’d once been as he carried him to the sitting room. ”Let’s get you wrapped up and cozy again. We don’t want to worsen the problem.” 

He landed in the soft pile of pillows and blankets and he smiled when he knew what was coming. Soon he was disappeared in a cocoon of soft fabrics and he could hardly move his legs in the tight swaddle. A big fluffy pillow was placed behind his head and he sank deep, deep into it until he thought he would disappear into another world where nothing more than just cotton, fluff and silk would exist and everything smelled like newly washed clothes. Probably the fever talking but he wouldn’t protest if he was actually going there. 

His father smiled warmly and leaned down to kiss his nose and Hamish giggled when he realised he couldn’t do anything to push John away. Kisses were nice, but he started to get to big for them. He was six for christ’s sake. But kisses could be nice sometimes. Now for example. One of the upsides of being sick. 

”Better?” John asked and rubbed his cheeks a little before staring into his shining, misty eyes. 

”Still cold.” he complained and squirmed in the cocoon. 

”Well, that’s all the blankets.” John smiled and laid a hand on his forehead again. ”I’ll come and wrap my arms around you soon. I’ll get that milk for you, okay.” Hamish received a gentle pat on his stomach before John disappeared and he squirmed until he found himself a comfortable spot on the sofa. Things seemed to get rather fuzzy, and the pain in his stomach was still burning. 

John poured up the mild in Hamish’s favourite cup, a completely black mug that blossomed with planets and stars once hot liquid was put in it. The boy thought he’d seen his first real magic trick the first time they’d tried it and no other cup in the cupboard was worthy his use as long as this was around. John looked at the planets it red, blue and green as he put it on a plate together with some oatmeal biscuits half dipped in dark chocolate. He took the plate and made his way back to the sitting room.

”Here we go, love.” he smiled and set them down on the table. ”Some milk and some...” 

Hamish was asleep. 

Heavily so. 

The little boy was whimpering, almost snoring and John smiled wide by the sight. It couldn’t have taken him more than seconds to actually doze off and John carded a hand through his hair. The fever must be bad, probably something he’d caught in school. If it wasn’t over in the next three days something needed to be done John decided there and then and brought the cup of warm milk to his lips. 

 

 

 

 

That night Hamish woke up on the sofa with a fire burning bright in the fireplace. In the chair was Sherlock, hands stapled under his chin and reading something on the glowing computer screen. The boy stared at him for a moment, not daring to move a limb just in case they would ache just as much as his eyes did just by blinking. 

”Dad?” he croaked. Sherlock didn’t react, just continued staring at the screen and Hamish lifted his head to get a better look when his stomach took a sudden turn and he groaned loudly by the odd feeling. He needed to throw up. ”Dad!” The detective twitched in his seat when he heard the desperate voice and turned to the boy lying on the sofa. ”I need to throw up.” Quick as a cat Sherlock ran out to the kitchen and came back with a bucket in no time. He looked stone cold but even Hamish could see how pale he had gotten as he closed in. 

The green plastic landed on the floor and two strong hands lifted him up on Sherlock’s lap. The detective was just in time before his insides poured out of him with noises like a velociraptor. He hugged the bucket to his chest and nearly buried his head in it, it didn’t seem to end and he would never forget the horrible taste. Then it seemed to be over, and with a loud groan his head lolled back onto Sherlock’s bony shoulder. 

”I feel really bad.” he whined breathlessly and felt the big hand tub his chest soothingly. 

”It’s okay.” Sherlock murmured and pressed his cheek to Hamish’s warm forehead. ”Did you get it all out?” 

”I don’t know.” he croaked and felt the hot coal in the bottom of his stomach that just kept getting hotter and hotter. ”My tummy really hurts.” 

”I know, handsome.” he sighed and placed the oozing mess on the floor to get it out of Hamish’s face. ”I’ll sit with you for a while, okay. Just tell me if you need to vomit again so we don’t make a mess on the floor. Here.” He reached for the glass of water on the table and held it to his lips. The water felt wonderful down his throat and he swallowed plenty of mouthfuls. ”Better?” He nodded weakly and fell back to his shoulder to rest his head. The pain in his stomach was terrible and he didn’t know what to do to make it disappear. 

”My tummy really hurts.” he cried and felt the cold sweat trickle down his face and neck. His father brushed his hair out of his face to get a good look of his tired expression and white skin. 

”Could you show me where?” he asked and started to unfold all the blankets around him so he could see his stomach. The little boy took a deep breath and caressed a hand over his whole abdomen. 

”Here.” he cried and gave a miserable sniffle. ”It’s horrible.” The detective gave a small hum in understanding and wrapped the blankets around him again. 

”Okay.” he sighed. ”We’re gonna let papa take a look at you since he’s the doctor, but it’s probably nothing.” Sherlock knew that was a lie but he’d been warned plenty of times that he couldn’t just say the pure truth to his son without there being consequences. These was one of those times he just had to lie. He couldn’t just tell his six-year-old-son that he suspected an inflamed appendicitis. 

He picked the boy up, cocoon and all and held him close to his chest as they made their way to the bedroom where John was currently resting for the upcoming work hours at the hospital. And on the bed he laid, sprawled out on both mattresses and head buried in the big pillow, snoring silently while dreaming away. Sherlock hated to disturb him but what else could he do right now. 

”John?” he asked and kicked the side of the bed. ”We need you.” The man under the cover gave a loud groan and squirmed away from the dark voice. ”John?” Finally the doctor cracked an eye open and he squinted up at both his boys. ”Your son needs you.” The doctor sighed and heaved himself sitting up to wake himself up. ”He’s been vomiting and his abdomen hurt.” That seemed to do the trick for John and he looked up at them both in worry. 

”Put him down on the bed.” The bundle was placed beside him and John went straight into action. Hamish was sobbing now, tears and sweat welling down his cheeks and John sent Sherlock of to get a wet towel. ”I’m just going to have a look at you.” he said to his son and pealed all the blankets off him. The chills went right through him again and he moaned in pain when John placed a hand on his stomach. ”Tell me if it hurts more somewhere and less somewhere else.” Hamish couldn’t do much more than just lay there as John poked at him. The closer he got to his abdomen the more he tensed. 

”Ow! There!” he suddenly gasped and tried not to swat his hand away. Something cold landed on his forehead and he opened his eyes he never realised he’d closed to see his dad stare at him with a worried face and there was only one question popping into his mind. ”Is it fatal?” 

”No, love. No.” John said quickly and rubbed his chest. ”But we’ll need to take a trip to the hospital in the morning, okay? Will you be fine for now?” Hamish frowned and shook his head quickly. 

”Not the hospital.” he moaned in misery and looked up at Sherlock who usually saved him from John’s bad ideas, but this time he seemed to agree, that frightened him the most. ”Please..” 

”I think we should listen to papa.” Sherlock murmured and mopped the sweat and tears off his face. 

”I’ll get you a paracetamol and then we’ll try to get some sleep.” John smiled. ”If you feel better in the morning we’ll forget about the hospital, alright.” Hamish nodded reluctantly and sniffled again. Hospital was a place for sick and dying people, he was not ending up there. He needed to lie.” 

”Okay.” he sighed and closed his eyes to enjoy the cool touch of the flannel on his forehead and face. ”But only if I’m allowed to go on cases with you for a week.” A low chuckled was heard from above and he cracked an eye open to toss his dad a evil stare. ”I’m serious. I’m old enough now. I’m seven.” 

”You’re six years, ten months and six days.” Sherlock smirked and wiped the flannel across his closed eye. ”But yes, I can agree to one case. And I’ll decide which one.” Hamish swallowed and nodded when he felt his stomach take a turn again. He lurched forward and John was quick to make hims it up while Sherlock held out the bucket. The horrible taste made itself reminded and the cold sweat broke through his skin all over again. 

”Get him some water.” John said and moved to sit behind the shrunken boy. He wrapped his arms around him and held onto the bucket while Hamish heaved over it in panic. ”You’ll be okay, love. I promise. Just tell me if the pain gets worse.” He threw up again and coughed by the force of it when a glass was forced to his lips again. The water cleared his mouth and throat and he sighed loudly when his stomach calmed for a moment. 

”It’s disgusting.” he whined while lolling his head back and forth on John’s shoulder. 

”I know.” John murmured and stroke his hair away from his face. ”Let’s place you close to the edge so you just have to lean over if you need to throw up again. Let’s try to get some sleep.” 

 

 

 

They did not sleep. Hamish woke up like clockwork with twenty minutes apart, throwing up or only dry heaving and John was close behind him to help with whatever he might need. A lot of tears were shed during those hours by the little boy. He was tired, in pain and sick of this. It only seemed to be getting worse but he would never confess any of that to John. Maybe if he just ignores it it would get better. 

It didn’t get better, as the sun peaked over the rooftops Hamish was shaking in both pain and exhaustion. With John’s arms wrapped around him he tried to relax but his body didn’t let him and when Sherlock checked in on him, after his run-around for seventy-two hours, even he looked worried. He never looked worried. 

”Hamish?” he whispered and placed a hand on his forehead. Not a single sound came out of him, everything was just a blur of colours and mists and suddenly something shifted behind him. The loss of contact made him roll onto his back and he saw John leaning over him, touching and caressing his skin and that’s when he noticed that he couldn’t move a single limb. There was no energy what so ever left in him. 

”Dad?” he croaked when suddenly hot searing pain shot through his body and he screamed by the shock and horrible sensation. Hard fingers was prodding his stomach and a sudden jolt of energy made him swat them away. 

”We need to take him to the hospital.” John said and pulled down Hamish shirt before wrapping him in the blanket again. ”I fear that his appendicitis is about to burst.” Sherlock nodded and reached for his phone. 

”I’ll call a cab.” he murmured when John nodded before stepping into a pair of trousers. 

”Or if you want it to go really fast you should call your brother.” he said and pulled a shirt over his head. Maybe that was for the best, Sherlock thought and dialled his number without further thought while John climbed back in bed to take care of their son. 

”Hamish?” he murmured and cupped his face. ”Can you hear me?” The boy only blinked, looked at him like he’d just grown a pair of cat ears on his head and that deep wrinkle of curiosity dug deep between his eyebrows. ”It’s hospital time. Mycroft’s gonna send us a car and we’ll be there in no time.” Hamish just stared at him, blinked away the tears that’d been falling all night. ”Okay, c’mon.” He wrapped him tighter in the blankets, picked him up and held him close to his chest. ”There we go.” he whispered in his ear while stepping out of the bed again. ”Nice and cozy.” 

”I don’t wanna go.” said a weak voice buried to his shoulder and John giggled while swaying back and forth. 

”I know. But we need to, love. It’s to make you better.” 

”There’ll be a car outside in five minutes.” Sherlock said and pocketed his phone again. ”Mycroft has already prepped the hospital for our arrival so he’ll get help without any wait.” 

”Good.” John sighed in relief and stepped into his shoes. ”Thank god for Mycroft.” 

Suddenly a loud wail was heard and John swayed back and forth as he carefully hushed the little boy. There was no need to try making the situation better since of course Hamish wouldn’t get better without medical help, but John still tried. Hearing him utter these sounds of pain were horrible and it didn’t seem to stop. 

”It’s okay, love.” he murmured while letting Sherlock wrap them in John’s shoulders ”We’re going to make you better now.” But that didn’t stop the cries and the doctor kissed his burning temple while hurrying down the stairs. ”Sherlock, did you bring a plastic bag or something?” With a small groan the detective hurried back up the stairs when Mrs Hudson’s door suddenly opened. The old woman poked her head out with the pink robe wrapped around her and fluffy slippers on her feet. 

”What’s going on?” she asked worriedly. ”You’ve been stomping around like bleeding elephants up there.” Then she saw the bundle about to slip out of John’s grip and she stepped out into the hallway. ”What’s wrong?” 

”I’m so sorry, Mrs Hudson.” John sighed and tried to renew his grip around the boy. ”He’s got an appendicitis that need out.” The old woman gasped and grasped for her heart. 

”Oh my goodness” she cried and hurried over to them both to place a warm hand on the boy’s back. ”The little dear. How long has it been like this?” 

”Since last night.” John grumbled tiredly and heard Sherlock hurrying down the stairs a second time with the plastic tesco bag in his hand. 

”Okay, let’s go.” John murmured to his little boy before turning to the door. ”A little trip and you’ll soon be better.”  
”I don’t wanna go.” Hamish whined again but held in tight with fingers and nails around his shoulders. ”Please, papa. Don’t.” But John was already out of the door and sliding into the car and that’s when Hamish understood that he wasn’t getting out of this. Tears started to well down his cheeks and he sobbed loudly to his shoulder in both protest and fright. He really didn’t want to go. 

”It’s okay.” John murmured and kissed his temple while rocking back and forth. ”We need to do something about this pain, don’t we? Huh?” But Hamish shook his head and John chuckled. ”I promise you, you’ll feel better very soon.” 

 

 

 

 

Hamish held onto Sherlock’s hand with all he’d got left as he was rolled through corridor after corridor on the uncomfortable stretcher. The doctors and nurses, who were all dressed in white and blue were talking above his head in terms he didn’t understand and that only made the whole thing worse. He needed to go home. He didn’t belong here. 

”I wanna go home.” he cried the hundredth time, ”Please, dad.” 

”We’re going home as soon as you feel better.” Sherlock promised as he travelled beside the bed with his massively long steps, squeezed his hand a little tighter while giving him that certain smile. ”And that will be soon, I promise.” Hamish stared at him with foggy eyes and swallowed painfully before giving a loud sigh. 

”Cross your heart.” he ordered and the detective chuckled as he brought his hand up to his chest and drew a big cross over his coat with a slender finger just as they were huddled into a room painted in clear white. Every corner was filled with machines, tubes, metal and a loud yelp slipped over Hamish’s lips when he saw his surrounding. 

”No.” he cried and looked up at John with panic lingering in his blue green eyes. ”Papa! No!” John hushed him gently and bowed his head until his nose met his and Hamish stared at him upside down. 

”It’s okay.” John whispered and kissed his forehead while rubbing his temples. ”It’s all fine. We’re not leaving you. We’ll be right here.” 

”What are they gonna do to me?” the boy cried and felt how every hiccups burnt like hot coal in the bottom of his stomach. ”I don’t want to be cut open. Please.” 

”It’ll be a tiny cut.” John said with a calm smile while nuzzling his nose. ”And you’ll have a cool scar that you can show off to your friends and I promise you that Greg’ll be very impressed.” How odd it even may appear those words seemed to calm the panicking boy. After all he’d always admired his fathers war wounds. His papa had the most and the biggest and Hamish knew every story about them. His dad had a few but not as bit, except the one of his right thigh which Hamish still hadn’t heard the story of but that didn’t make it less impressive. Scars always held a story. And after this there would be a story of his own on his body. 

With a deep breath which exhaled some of the fear, he swallowed the tears and blinked a couple of times before nodding.  
”As long as it won’t hurt.” he said with a small voice and gazed upon his two fathers who both were giving him those calm smiles. 

”Not at all.” John promised and moved out of the way as the doctors gathered around the bed again. ”You’re gonna breath in a mask now, okay? It’s nothing to be scared of. We’ll be here the whole time.” It took a moment but eventually the boy nodded reluctantly, sniffled as he squeezed Sherlock’s big hand the best he could. ”You’re such a brave boy.” With a last sob they covered his face with the mask and the nurses and doctor spoke with high pitched voices fit to calm a scared child. 

He was soon to sleep and John let out a huge breath the moment the boy closed his eyes. It was time and Sherlock led him out of the door to leave the doctors to work. They barely made it out the door before John collapsed in his husbands arms and Sherlock held him as they stood in the middle of the corridor. It wasn’t that he needed comfort, just someone precious lean on as he breathed out the worry that’d been bothering him for the last couple of hours. 

”He’ll be fine, John.” he whispered and gave his back a pat. ”Don’t dwell in this.” John pulled back with a tired sigh, rubbed his eyes a moment before collecting himself. 

”Jesus.” he groaned and felt Sherlock give his cheek a loving stroke. ”That little boy will be the death of me one day.” Sherlock chuckled and pressed a kiss to his hand which he held onto. 

”Shut up.” he smiled and pulled him down the corridor. ”Let’s get some breakfast before we lose out minds completely.” 

 

 

 

 

That was probably one of the better things John’d heard this morning as he took his first sip of earl grey and bit down on his reheated toast. It wasn’t more than a hospital cafeteria breakfast but it was still something. Sherlock watched him form across the table while sipping his own tea, rubbed his foot against John’s and observed with worry and loving concern. 

”Two hours.” John said suddenly as he felt the question closing in. ”Then he’ll probably be moved to recovery.” 

”Good.” the detective murmured and wrapped both his hands around the plastic cup. ”And how long will he be in recovery?” 

”A day or two.” John answered and tilted his head to the side. ”But if you don’t want to stay during that time you can go him if you’d like.” 

”Of course I’ll stay.” Sherlock interrupted and gave his husband a sharp look of hurt. How could John think of him like that? Never would he leave any of them right now as Hamish was in pain. 

”I know you will.” John said with a soft smiled and Sherlock felt right out dumbstruck for a moment. The irony had simply passed him and he blushed as he directed his glance to the table filled with crumbs and coffee rings. ”Hamish would be miserable without you to take care of him. It’ll be just like when he hit his head, the moment his in your arms he’ll never let go.” Sherlock felt his cheeks burn as he thought of the impact he’d actually caused on their son. ”You don’t think highly of yourself when it comes to Hamish, do you?” John asked suddenly and the detective felt like the air was punched out of him. 

”What?” he gasped and stared at his husband. But there was no anger within him, only a small humor that Sherlock still thought he wasn’t good enough for being a father. After six years he was still living in denial and John pursed his lips for a moment. 

”That boy loves you, Sherlock. More than anything in the world. Every scrape, every stubbed toe and paper cut that’s happened without you close he’s cried after you. I don’t know why but he seems to find more comfort in you than in me.” The detective felt a smile twitch the corners of his lips again and he glanced up at his husband. 

”Don’t say that.” he chuckled and rubbed a hand over his cheek to cover up the blushing. 

”I mean it.” John smiled and reached over the table to take his hand in his, rub his knuckles and kiss his fingers. ”You need to start believing that you’re loved by him. This high functioning sociopathic thing is something Hamish’ll never care about. He’s raised with it and have learnt how to deal with it. You’ve made him persistent, intelligent and so frightfully clever and you need to start seeing that. There’s a huge part of you in him and he’ll recognise himself in you or be told how alike you are and every time that is mentioned your denial is gonna kill him. So stop it. Hamish loves you.” 

Sherlock crumpled up on his chair, lowered his head and sighed loudly. It was hard for him. He’d always been feared by people and not to speak about kids. Children feared him, their parents more. And then again it was the problem with his own childhood. He wasn’t as much raised as forced into being an adult and therefore he had no idea how to bring up one of his own. He hadn’t really felt love since he met John and that feeling was hard to get use too. And getting it from a small child was even harder. Their show of it was different. 

”I know.” he sighed and squeezed his hand. ”I’m having a hard time getting used to it. I’m not a loveable person.” 

”Shut up.” John belted with a chuckle and gave his shin a small kick. ”You’re a very loveable person. Extremely so.” 

”Not many people would agree with you.” Sherlock chuckled and rubbed his foot up John’s ankle. 

”Not many people have given you a real chance yet.” was John’s answer before he returned to his coffee again. 

 

 

 

 

 

The word reappeared around him in a big, beautiful blur and the boy blinked as he let his head loll on the soft pillow. A warm hand was petting his hair and it felt to good to be real, in fact, everything seemed to good to be real. This bed was so soft, this pyjamas was so comfy, the light around him was so amazingly golden and he sighed loudly at the humming voice beside him. 

”Hamish?” John asked as he squeezed his hand and watched how the boy smiled ridiculously as his swimming eyes roamed the roof. With a laugh John looked up at Sherlock whose fingers carded through the boy’s dark hair. ”I think he’s still out of it. A lot of painkillers going on.” Sherlock hummed and nodded as he watched his son lick his dry lips and mumble something incoherent. ”He’ll snap out of it in a couple of minutes.” Hamish squeezed his hand and closed his eyes again, sighed loudly before letting his head fall to the side. 

”Dad?” he croaked and swallowed dryly. ”Papa?” 

”Right here, handsome.” Sherlock whispered and pressed his lips to his shoulder. ”We’re right here.” With a sniffle the boy made a troubled face and groaned unhappily. 

”I don’t wanna get up yet.” he complained and gave John a warning stare that made the laughter tickle the doctor’s throat. 

”No, not yet.” he promised and kissed his little fingers. ”Go back to sleep love.” But Hamish gave a small pout and groaned. 

”Not tired.” he sighed and worked his tongue. ”Thirsty.” Sherlock tickled the corner of his mouth with the straw and Hamish wrapped his lips around it, drew a mouthful of water and swallowed with a hum. ”That’s good water.” Sherlock laughed and kissed his shoulder again. 

”You’re crazy, handsome.” he chuckled and saw how Hamish turned his head to face him. 

”You’re crazy.” he giggled and leaned into the kiss to his forehead. 

”Agreed.” he whispered and played with his hair while drowning in the boy’s deep blue eyes. 

”I love you, daddy.” he smiled and blinked while trying to focus on the man. ”I know you don’t believe that sometimes. But I really do.” Sherlock frowned and took his little hand in his.

”What makes you say that?” he asked worriedly and moved in so close that their noses touched. Hamish hummed with a tired smile on his lips and pulled up his arm from the cover. His finger pressed to the space between Sherlock’s eyes and he blinked. 

”I’ve seen you doubt.” he whispered like it was a secret. ”And I’ve heard you say how you’re unlovable but.. not by me and papa. Why would he even marry you if he didn’t love you, stupid?” Sherlock laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. ”And every time I tell you that I love you, you look a little worried. Like you want to believe but still doesn’t. You need to stop that.” Sherlock sighed and felt how something inside him grew until impossible size and he smiled while tears prickled the corners of his eyes. 

”I’m so sorry handsome.” he sighed and gave his lips a small peck. ”I’m just not used to it. I guess I’m more used to being unloved than actually loved.” 

”Well.” Hamish sighed and gave his shoulder a nudge. ”You need to change that.” 

John sighed above them and shook his head in disbelief. Their son was six and he’d already picked up on Sherlock’s abilities to deduce human emotions. He’s read Sherlock from page to page and he didn’t know if that scared him or intrigued him. But for know he decided to just enjoy the moment. Hamish had finally reached Sherlock’s heart fully and for the first time Hamish was allowed to love him with Sherlock actually believing him. John studied as the tears was quickly wiped from Sherlock’s face and he placed a warm hand on his shoulder. 

”I love you, too, handsome.” he chuckled wetly and pecked his lips again. ”I alway have, okay?” 

”I know.” was Hamish’s response as he giggled and squeezed Sherlock’s hand. ”I always knew that.”


	4. Three years

Hamish had turned into a very quiet boy since he'd started school. It had been a slow transformation that probably would have passed any other person that knew him, but for his two parents the change was gradually noticed. The first year had been a simple year. School was filled with fun and practical games, there was no math, no reading nothing that could part the students into different levels of intelligence. School was just a fun place where things always seemed to be happening in their favour.

Then he entered the second grade and it was the first time he lowered his head into a book that wasn't filled with bright pictures or ridiculously huge letters for him to learn by. These were schoolbooks, an element of learning. But this wasn't the problem. In fact Hamish picked up reading quickly.

Very quickly.

Remarkably quickly.

His friends got jealous. And even if the boy didn't have any intentions to brag about his intelligence his mates would always know that whatever this boy put his mint into he would learn it in seconds.

Hamish became a victim for their acts of jealousy.

 

 

 

 

In the middle of his second year he came home in the middle of a snowstorm without his beanie covering his ears. His soft waves were glittering in the melted snowflakes, ears glowing red by the cold and John hurried over the floor to cover them with his warm hands. The boy had cried at the sudden heat and dropped the bag to the floor. That's when they noticed he didn't have any shoes either. Hamish had walked home in the middle of a snowstorm in two feet of snow i no more than his socks and John was furious as he lowered the six-year-old into the hot bath. Those shoes were never found and Hamish never told them where they'd gone or what'd happened to them. But the parents didn't need him to explain to understand what had happened.

 

 

 

Beginning of the third year in school and Hamish came home with his backpack filled with paper. But not just any paper. They were book pages from his doctor who novel that had fallen a victim to the other kids revenge and Hamish spent the whole day crying. John wanted to do the same thing. Sherlock left the house without a word and left John furious. How could the man be such a coward and retreat every time something bad happened to their son?

He regretted that thought the moment Sherlock came back home with another copy of the book and he stared with overwhelming love as the detective made his way over to the crying boy in the armchair. Tears welled without a stop down his cheeks and eyes rimmed red, the boy looked up at his father that slowly fell into squat before him and made an attempt to wipe his tears.

"Here." Sherlock murmured and placed the book on his lap. A sad chuckle slipped over the boy's lips and he held it tight to his chest like it was the book that held the answers too every question ever asked and he cried even more as he realised that his father's attempt to cheer him up hadn't worked.

"The book wasn't the problem." he cried in shame to explain his new tears to his kind father.

"I know." Sherlock had whispered and gathered him in his arms. "But I wish it where."

So did Hamish.

And so did John.

 

 

 

Middle of third year. Hamish said no more than five sentences a day at the most. The rest were just syllables that meant yes or no to his fathers questions and John made so many calls to the school he remembered the teachers phone number like the back of his own hand. They didn't offer much help, and when they put some energy into actually make some changes it often turned the situation into something much worser.

Hamish self-esteem hit rock bottom the day even the girls started to bully him. Even if Hamish wasn't developed enough to feel the chemical reactions of love he wasn't a complete stranger to holding hands or easy pecks on the lips which he called 'kisses'. Like every boy in his age he needed the feeling of being normal and even Sherlock could accept that. But Hamish weren't normal in the other children's eyes. His high intelligent mind would always be foreign to them, and when even the girls in class started to pick on him about his brain it was like someone had pulled the carped away from under his feet.

He came home from school, didn't stop to say hello but continued his journey up the second flight of stairs and Sherlock saw his shadow disappear around the corner. With John out of the house it was his responsibility to take care of him and he climbed the stairs with heavy steps. The door was closed and he stared at the residue of glue where he'd once attached the posters and small pictures. This door was currently hiding something highly explosive, a bundle of emotions that Sherlock probably didn't know how to deal with but he still had so many reasons to try.

"Hamish?" he quaked and opened the door. In the darkness of lowered drapes and turned off lights the shape of his son rested on the covers of the bed. He was curled up into a form that didn't resemble anything healthy and the detective observed. But he didn't deduce.

In silence he moved to the bed, lowered himself on the mattress and placed a secure hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed. His back was turned against him, but he didn't need to see his face to know that it was emotionless. The boy had turned himself off and sent him into something that wasn't really living.

"I don't want to do this anymore." he sighed with a voice so tired it didn't seem like the right one for those words.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked carefully and closed his eyes as he waited for the answer.

"This." Hamish answered simply and blinked in the darkness. "All of it." The detective closed his eyes and moved himself to crawled up beside his little boy, his long arms wrapped around his chest and he pulled him close to his form. Nose buried in the soft waved and Hamish's hand squeezing his arm he let out a hurtful sigh.

"What happened today?" he asked carefully while in secret taking the boy's pulse. Surprisingly calm, almost weak.

Hamish shrugged, buried his head a little deeper into the pillow and started to pull his ear, something he always did when he was sick or feeling bad.

"Hamish." Sherlock murmured. "I know I'm not the man of comfort but at least let me try. I have a feeling of that I can't make it any worse." The first sob left the boy then. It was tired and full of hopelessness that Sherlock couldn't do anything about except just bring him a little closer to his chest and kiss the top of his head.

"They forgot about me." he cried and made himself as small as possible in Sherlock's arms. "We were at the museum and - and we were all assigned a travel-comrade so if someone got lost that person would say that the other one was gone before we got back on the bus. Liam left me the second we got out of the bus and I spent the whole day alone. Just seconds before we were supposed to be back on the bus I - I saw him and told him that I just needed to go to the bathroom real quick and asked him if he could tell Mrs Greer and... " A loud sob ripped through his throat and Sherlock rubbed his heaving chest in comfort. "He didn't! When I got back everyone was gone. The bus had already left and.."

Sherlock couldn't do much more than just take huge, shivering breath of defeat. The school had won over their son. He was now broken, beaten and in the belief that this was what life had to offer.

"Hamish.."

"I had to walk back to school." he cried. "It took me an hour and when I finally got there mrs Greer hadn't even noticed that I'd been missing so she yelled at me for being late to class and when I told her why she stared at me like I was an idiot. And she asked me why I hadn't made it on the buss and when I told her she told me that it was stupid of me that I didn't tell her instead of Liam." He sobbed again and squirmed in Sherlock's arms.

"You're not an idiot." he whispered and kissed his cheek. "She's the idiot." But Hamish didn't know if he could believe that anymore. "D'you know what?" Sherlock tried instead and carded his fingers through his hair. "I think it's time we pull you out of that school and find something else for you."

"I don't want another school." he cried and whipped his head back and forth. "I don't want any school." His father could easily understand that and he made a decision without John's consent. He knew very well that he would have done anything to take a break from school when times where hard.

"Okay." he said and entwined their hands tightly. "Let's forget about school for a couple of days. We can do something else." The boy sniffled and wiped his tears with the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Really?" he croaked and hiccuped by the awful crying that had been locked in him for hours.

"Yes." he whispered and pressed his lips to his temple. "Let's do something else for a while. What would you like to do." The boy, who'd nearly forgotten what the word fun meant by now, furrowed his brow and continued to cry for a couple of minutes more. For now he just enjoyed being securely wrapped in Sherlock's arms and he never wanted to leave for as long as possible but he knew that wasn't the case. His imagination ran freely as he tried to imagine what they could do to forget about school for a couple of days.

"I don't know." was the answer. He really didn't know.

 

 

 

 

John came home two hours later and the moment he entered the flat he knew that something was wrong. The air was thick and polluted by a bad feeling and John felt drawn to the room upstairs. Hit gut told him to climb the stairs and as he did his legs got heavier and heavier.

The door was slightly ajar and he could see Sherlock lying on the mattress with his back towards him. Something had to be wrong. That's when he saw the arm wrapped around his neck and he started to understand.

"Hi." he murmured carefully and stepped into the room only to make his stomach tighten in sadness. Hamish's face was swollen by crying and buried to Sherlock's chest while the detective himself were awake and staring into the wall before him. "What happened?" Sherlock blinked once and continued to draw circles Hamish's shoulder with his thumb.

"They forgot him at the museum." he sighed and the arm around his neck tightened its grip while the boy bundle up his face in pure pain.

"Oh, love." the doctor gasped in terror and slipped landed heavily on the bedside. "What d'you mean forgot?" He placed a soft hand to Hamish's back and rubbed him carefully as he told the story once more and John strongly fought his own tears while he listened. As he reached the end, tears were finally falling down his cheeks.

It was the last drop. This family had fought long and hard to overcome this but now they just couldn't do it anymore. Years of sadness had passed and they needed to end. And that time had come.

"We're taking a break." Sherlock said and was ready for a fight with his husband if he didn't agree. "We're pulling him out of that school and then we're taking a long break before we're even thinking about finding him a new one." That when he noticed how badly does word fumed. But how could he deny that he was angry? John could say whatever he wanted right now but Sherlock was not letting this boy out of sight for at least a month. But John's answer was not what he'd expected.

"Of course." he said like it was obvious, and maybe it was. "We're not taking you back there Hamish. It's time for some changes." The boy sobbed loudly and clawed at Sherlock's jacket with short nails. Tears of relief and pain just kept coming without a stop and neither of his parents had ever seen him like this. "I promise you, Hamish, things are gonna be different from now on, okay?"

Hamish was too broken to answer him and Sherlock gathered him in his arms and sat up, he knew John wanted to be able to hold the boy as well and before he knew it, the doctor's arms were wrapped around them both. John kissed his son wherever he could reach and Hamish cries got even louder.

"It's okay." John whispered and rubbed his arms. "It's okay." And Hamish believed him. Who could be more right than his fathers?

 

 

 

He slept between them that night, securely wrapped his their arms and he was the first one to close his eyes. He was also the last one to wake up and his fathers left the room to let him rest. This was probably the first good night sleep he'd had in years. Who knows what bad thoughts and worried had kept him up before. But he didn't need those now. For once he could relax.

"D'you remember what he had that cold last year." John said suddenly and looked up from his tea. Sherlock, sitting across the table, looked up from the papers with a stare that told him 'of course'. "Those nights were the first he actually slept, I think." Sherlock frowned. "Think about it. How many mornings hadn't he woken up with a tummy ache or a headache? He hasn't been able to sleep properly for a long time accept that time he had that cold. He was home for a week and he spent the first two days sleeping only because he didn't have to worry about school in the morning."

"He had a fever." Sherlock said.

"It doesn't matter." John sighed. "I bet you he wont be awake until afternoon."

He was of course right. Hamish padded out of their bedroom around four with dark circles under his eyes, hair in every direction and every limb weak and exhausted. Without a work he moved over to the sofa, wrapped himself in the blanket and landed on the cushions. He fell asleep again and John looked up at Sherlock.

"Maybe you have a point." the detective confessed and tucked the blanket around his boy a little tighter.

John wished he didn't.

So did Sherlock.

But Hamish woke an hour later with a growling stomach and as he opened his eyes he saw the soft light of Sherlock's laptop screen. His father was sitting on the floor, leaning back to the sofa and a cup of tea steaming on the table. Hamish new that he was watching over him and he sighed in relief.

"Dad?" he croaked and Sherlock turned his head. He looked sad and Hamish felt the heaviness of guilt getting heavy in his stomach.

"Are you alright?" his father asked and reached out to caress his cheek.

"Hungry." he explained and rubbed his eye.

"Papa's bringing us takeout as we speak." Sherlock told him and took his hand, kissed his fingers and rested his head on his stomach as he observed. "Granny's coming for dinner. She said she'd make you those cookies you like."

"Chocolate chip?" Sherlock nodded and let the boy play with his curls that were draped over the blanket.

"That's the one." he smiled but Hamish couldn't avoid the sadness. His dad looked exhausted, but not because he hand't eaten enough or hadn't gotten enough sleep. No, this was a different kind of sad and Hamish sniffled.

"I'm sorry." he murmured in guilt and closed his eyes.  
"About what?"

"For making you sad." he sighed and felt the tears threatening to fall again even if he was too tired to cry.

"Handsome." Sherlock whispered and kissed his hand again. "You're not the one making us sad. That school and how you've been treated is what's making us sad. You haven't done anything to hurt us." Hamish didn't believe him but decided to forget it for now. He didn't have the energy to cry anymore and he blinked at his father with big, blue eyes.

"Can I sleep some more?" he asked and Sherlock kissed his fingers again, carded his fingers through his hair and sighed.

"I'll wake you when it's dinner." he said simply and Hamish drifted off again. Sherlock stayed where he was, head resting on Hamish's stomach and the little hand held onto his curls. He hoped dinner would linger a while longer.

 

 

 

 

Once Hamish woke up again he was scoped up in John's arms who pressed a pair of lips to his forehead.

"Good evening." he whispered and turned on his feet. "Are we hungry?" His stomach craved food, but something inside him said differently. It felt like if his tongue touched anything like food he'd throw up yet his stomach growled painfully. He was shaking and every limb was weak and it scared him, maybe something was wrong.

"No" he cried and grabbed his shirt. "I wanna sleep."

"You need to eat something." John ordered and renewed his grip around his body. "You've been sleeping all day."

"I'm not hungry." he whined and squirmed in his arms. John sat down at the table and lowered him on his lap, gave his hair a good carding to straighten the waves. "Please, just let me sleep."

"Hamish." John said strictly and rubbed his arm. "C'mon, just a bite. Dad said you were hungry."

"C'mon, Hamish." said a dark voice from the other side of the room and the boy lifted his heavy head to look at the mentioned man who currently collected cutlers for their meal. "You've got to eat something." The boy sighed loudly and let his head loll back to John's chest. Something was tingling inside him, making his limbs feel fuzzy and achy and as he blinked he only got more exhausted.

"Hey?" John called and shook him a little. "No more sleeping right now, okay?" The sound of metal being scraped to the plate made Hamish cringe and he moaned unhappily and tried to bury his face in John's jumper.  
"I don't wanna." he whined and felt the tears sting his eyes again. "I'm gonna throw up if I eat something."

"Better to have something in your stomach if that's gonna happen than nothing." John said worriedly and put down the fork to run a hand through the boy's hair. "Hamish, how are you feeling?" Tears started to fall and he decided not to open his eyes again until he was laid down somewhere warm where he could sleep for at least a year. "Hamish?"

"I just wanna sleep." he cried and wiped the tears with the back of his shaking hand. "I'm tired."

"Could you at least drink something?" John asked and hugged him. "Please." He was getting desperate, the sight of his son shutting down was the worst he'd ever seen and he needed it to stop. "Just some water?" But Hamish shook his head and sniffled.

"Just let me sleep some more."

Suddenly he found himself crying. Not really sobbing but long, tired breaths forcing their way up his throat and he soon two arms wrapped themselves around him. John was holding him tight, burying his nose in his messy waves while rocking back and forth and Hamish felt safe. But the world was still existing around them. Those horrible kids in his class were probably still laughing at his turn up yesterday and someday, changing school or not, he would bump into them. His stomach tightened painfully and the shivers grew more violent.

"You're okay, handsome." John whispered and rubbed big circles on his back. "I promise. You don't have to worry anymore."

 

 

 

 

This continued for the rest of the week. Hamish slept more than being awake, and when he actually was he cried and didn't eat more than just spoonfuls of whatever was offered, it wasn't enough. John stayed home from his job and had his son under observation every second, held him in his arms as they watched movies for a while and tried to get him to talk more but it didn't work that much. The feeling that the earlier event might not have been the only one this week got stronger and he kissed Hamish's cheek as he rested on his chest.

They still hadn't brought up their ideas of looking for a new school, but they knew that Mycroft, without their consent had started looking around at the more expensive private schools. Something they would never afford but that Mycroft happily would pay. John did not agree to that. He and Sherlock was supposed to take care of their son, not his uncle.

He sighed loudly and took the little boy's hand, rubbed it slightly and he nuzzled his temple. Hamish hummed happily and turned on his lap, wrapped his arms around John's neck and hugged him tight.

"Papa?" he whispered and buried his face in the nape of his neck. "Do I have to go to school? I'm gonna be a detective anyway, can't just you and daddy teach me?" John smiled and wrapped his arms around him, kissed his shoulder and chuckled.

"I wish it was that simple, but to be a good detective you need some knowledge that the school gives you." he sighed. Hamish pulled back and looked straight at his father. He was still tired looking, pale and blotchy.

"What if the knew school isn't better?" he asked and rubbed his eye. John sighs, takes his boy by his shoulders and look in deep into the blue eyes.

"It'll be." he promises without fact, suddenly wishes he'd just kept quiet.

 

 

 

Hamish has nightmares. They starts the moment Sherlock mentions a school fifteen minutes away with the subway and John agrees that it indeed sounds like a good school. The boy doesn't agree. He's grown a custom to the calm life at home and sees no reason to leave it soon.

He lies in their bed, trashes and screams in piercing panic that neither of them can calm and when he finally wakes up he buries his face into the soft pillows and continue to scream. He's still broken, and John and Sherlock can't provide the help he needs. Just talking doesn't do anything and as he cards his fingers through the boy's tangled waves and feels him shiver he wants to cry too.

Sherlock's sits on his knees on the other side of the little form between them, rubbing big circles on their son's back while staring at his husband with darkened eyes that's filled with hatred. His mind is probably made up by know. How can they make him return to something that is printed in his head as something painful?

"Hamish," he tries and breaks their gaze to actually look at their little boy who's currently choking himself in the pillow. "Breathe." That's all he says.  
John wish they could do more.

So does Sherlock.

 

 

 

They call the school the morning after, tells the principal about their situation and she seems to understand, but John has learned not to put trust in people that easily. She says it will be fine, that Hamish will get a lot of friends and that they can promise the boy a good class.

So did the last school.

The boy sits on the sofa when John comes to look for him. Head buried in 'London murders 1800' while the woman on the telly is roaring loudly. He reaches for the controller when something hits him in the head. The shock makes him stumble to the side and he looks at the book at the floor. On the sofa Hamish sits, panting and jaw clenching.

"Hamish?" John gasps, but he isn't mad. Hamish, on the other hand, is.

"I'm not going!" he bellows and throws the closest pillow at his father. John catches it and buries his fingers deeply into the stuffing while he stares. This is the first time Hamish has ever been this mad and he doesn't know what to say or do.

"Hamish." he tried again as the boy slides of the sofa, pulls his hair as he screams in protest and John grows cold at the sight. Hamish stomps and pulls away as John tries to gather him in his arms. He hits his head in the mantelpiece and now neither of them knows if he cries in pain or in hurt. Possibly both, John thinks as he closes in another time, but Hamish pulls away again, knock's over the coffee table and a cup of old tea spills to the floor.

Sherlock appears in the middle of the mess and stares at his son in confusion, the apron covering his suit is covered in blood but he lets it fall to the floor as he unties the knots. He barely manages to duck when Hamish throws the cup that contained to cold tea on him. It smashed the wall, turns to pieces and his parents stares at him. John can tell that he's scared and then notices the blood dripping down his neck.

"Hamish." His voice has turned into a begging tone and he notices the tears welling down his cheeks. Her crying though he promised himself never to do that in front of Hamish.

"Don't do this." the boy begs as he finally starts to calm down. "Don't make me. Please." He looks at Sherlock while he begs, knowing that it's most likely him that will agree to let him stay in their safe home, but Sherlock looks sad. There isn't any help to be found in him. Hamish understands and turned his back to them both, reveals the wound in the back of his head and trembles by the forceful sobs.

"I hate you." he says in barely a whisper and John brakes. He sobs and hides his face in the palm of his hand. He can understand his son, but they can't keep him locked in here for ever. Hamish needed to get out in the world again, he needed his education, but at the same time he didn't want his son to feel like this."

The boy trembles and folds in on himself until his sitting on the floor, curled up into a tight ball and back turned against them. The cries turns softer and the bloods seized to drip. Sherlock takes a step forward. Without a word he closes in on his son and kneels behind him, wraps his arms around his small form and presses him to his chest while John observes behind his tears.

Hamish doesn't speak. Carefully Sherlock rubs his chest as he hums and John leaves the room. He can't take this anymore.

"You can't become a great detective without a proper education." Sherlock whispers to his son as he gathers him in his arms. "How would you ever be able to solve a crime that's history related if you never studied it?" He gets no answer but he knows that Hamish understands. "I know that you're scared and it's understandable. But me and papa will keep on fighting until you find a school where you belong."

"No." Hamish cried and shook his head that was resting on is knees. "Shut up."

"It's okay." Sherlock whispered and pulls hims a little closer, kisses his temple and nuzzled his hair that isn't bloodied. "Papa's gonna be there with you the first days. He'll be close until you find friends and then when you feel ready he'll stop coming with you."  
Hamish cries louder and shakes his head.

"Who would want to be friends with me? Weird little Hamish with big ears and head?" Sherlock sighs and notices the many fears hiding within him. There's nothing more he can do.

"This school is different." he tries. "We promise. It'll be better." He chuckles and rubs his arm. "And I'm sure no one will notice your big head or ears." Hamish laughs at that at everything seems a bit easier. He lifts his head and wipes his many tears, looks over his shoulder where John once stood. Tears forms in his eyes when he remembers his deed and he wails.

"I don't hate you." he cries and turns in Sherlock's arms, wraps his own around his neck and squeezes until Sherlock can't breathe. "I don't."

"I know." Sherlock sighs and lifts him off the floor. "But I'm not the one you need to hear that right now."

John's locked himself in the bathroom, tap running freely and Sherlock knows it's on just so no one will hear his sobs. He wished he didn't knew that as he knocked the door and Hamish buried his face to his shoulder. His stomach was hurting badly, guilt and fright were tearing him apart and he was at the brink of throwing up any second. The tap were shut, handle turned and John appeared in the door. Eyes rimmed red and swollen, he concentrated on the floor beneath his feet.

"Papa." Hamish cried and turned his head to face him. "I don't hate you." He reached out his short arms and John caught him between them. "I really don't."

"I know." his papa cried and held him close. "I know."

"I love you, papa." he cried and kissed his cheek. "I really do and if you really want me to go to that school I will, but only if you come with me."

"I will." John promised and kissed his neck. "I won't leave you for as long as you need me. I promise. We just want the best for you."

"I know." Hamish sobbed and buried his face to the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry." John breathed him in for just a moment to calm his quivering nerves before he remembered the blood.

"Let's take a look at that head of yours, okay?" he sighed and wiped his tears with a tired smile.

 

 

 

 

The night before the new school day was horrific. Hamish didn't eat, talk or get out of bed and John's guilt drilled deeper into his guts. He felt like the worst parent of the year for making his son feel this bad. By now he'd lost count of how many times he'd told him they were sorry.

Sherlock entered their bedroom, watched the little boy on the bed and placed the two bowls of soup on the table, studied his son as he stared into nothingness. At least he hadn't been crying today, Sherlock thought as he sat down on the bedside.

"I eat if you eat." he haggled and signed for the bowls. Hamish blinked and looked up at his father. It was a good deal. He hated seeing his father go for days without eating. Sitting up in the bed he took the bowl and stared at the creamy dinner his father had created. He took a spoonful and smiled when he saw Sherlock do the same. For every spoon Hamish brought to his mouth Sherlock did the same and both of them were sure John would be over the moon if he'd seen them.

"Good?" Sherlock asked as he watched Hamish chew the pasta and a slightly undercooked carrot.

"Yes." he answers simply and licked his lips before putting his bowl away. He'd hardly eaten four spoons but yet Sherlock felt pleased with this accomplishment. The boy sighed and crawled back under the cover, placed his heavy head on the pillow and gave his father a sad gaze. "What if I don't like the new school?"

"It'll be fine." Sherlock promised and discarded his bowl, straightening his pyjamas and climbed into bed. "You just have to give it a chance." He kneeled beside his son and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't want to give it a chance." he groaned and squirmed under the thick cover.

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock scoffed and gave him a quick poke. "I'm sure you'll like it." Hamish giggled and kicked his little legs to get away but his father kept tickling him. "I gave the school a quick look through and it seemed nice enough. I'm sure you don't have anything to worry about."

Latching out Hamish caught his wrist and the tickling stopped, but he was, to Sherlock's satisfaction, still giggling. Just like a child his age should do.

"Will you come with me someday? Just you and me, the oddballs of Baker Street." Sherlock frowned and slammed down beside him, making the boy laugh as he bounced on the mattress.

"Someday, perhaps." he answered and kissed his nose. "But you do remember that I'm not the one for social conventions?"

"I don't care." Hamish giggled and kissed him right back. "I just want you there. Just for a day." With a sigh he gave in and nodded distinctively, making Hamish happier than he'd been in a long time.

 

 

 

 

The morning to come Hamish was shaking, tears fell down his pale cheeks and John felt like an complete arse as he wiped them off with his shirt sleeve. He held his hand and ran his fingers through his hair over and over while kissing his face.

"It's gonna be fine." he promised and hugged him shard. "Don't worry. I'm gonna be with you all day until you say it's enough. We'll go home whenever you want to."

It isn't enough, Hamish keeps crying, skips breakfast because of his stomachache and won't look up from his shoes. He knows that his parents are sad but what can he do? He can't keep his face straight for them but he feels the guilt growing. Knowing more than well than he was the cause of their pain only made his own worse and he didn't know what to do about it.

John did what he could to not feel like a complete arse as he tied the boy's shoes, buttoned his jacket and pulled the hat over his ears. If he could he would let his son stay at home, he would cuddle him in front of the telly and play with his silky waves. Sadly that wasn't a scenario that could happen at the moment. Every child deserved to have a good school time, even Hamish, and John would do whatever he could to give him that.

He squeezed his hand hard as they went down to the subway and Hamish looked around with big eyes, he'd only been travelling by buss to his old school and this was both exciting and scary. John taught him how to recognise the different stops, how to find the signs and finally he made the boy repeat the station they were stepping off, he needed to remember that. Hamish didn't want to.

The climbed a set of stairs up to higher ground and Hamish felt smaller and smaller for every step. He wanted to pull back, tug his father's hand and force him to go back. This idea was bad, he could feel it. Lifting his head he saw the open space of a market square, still empty at this time even if he'd skipped the first two lessons at least.

"There it is." John said and pointed at the huge house at the end of the street with a garden filled with playgrounds and football fields in concrete. It looked frightening, to big for someone like him and he slowed his step, making his father pull his arm. "C'mon, or we're gonna be late."

"I wanna be late!" Hamish whined and felt his legs lose their ability to move. "I really don't wanna go there." He didn't cry, if he now was going in there he didn't want to meet his new classmates with red rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks, in fact, he didn't want to meet them at all.

"It's gonna be fine." John promised but felt the weight becoming heavier in his guts. He was an arse.

They stepped inside and Hamish took a whiff of the air. It was different from his old school. His last one smelled of crayons and paint. This one had a distinct odour of paper and granite. Maybe they didn't have crayons in this school. Maybe the children only painted with ink or some more expensive colours that didn't stink. Maybe they didn't paint at all. Somehow this school reminded him of a different school. Maybe they taught magic here as well. He quickly shook his head, his father would laugh to death if he heard him say that.

John laid a hand on his head and pulled him close and Hamish gripped his jeans tightly as they made their way to the reception. He stopped when he felt his son shaking.

"Two hours." he said. "Then we'll go home."

"One hours." Hamish haggled and looked down at his feet.

"One and a half." John said strictly but not too harshly. Hamish agreed. "It's gonna be fine."

 

 

 

 

 

He whimpered in relief when the teacher told him that he didn't need to stand in front of class to introduce himself. Instead he could wait in the classroom for the rest of the class to arrive and the children could present themselves first. It sounded like a good idea to the boy who was at the edge of crying again.

Sitting at his desk with his father on a chair beside him he looked out over the classroom. These walls wasn't covered with colourful letters or drawings, but posters of famous paintings such as Picasso and Monet. He and John fell into a game of guessing the artists and Hamish won. Not a surprise. Suddenly the small laughs faded as the door opened and the children streamed in in groups, laughing and joking. The boy stared, wishing that he for once could be amongst them and laugh just as loud as them. Suddenly a girl with long dark hair noticed him and gave him something Hamish had never gotten before.

A smile.

Hamish whimpered in fright and lowered his gaze.

Had she noticed his big ears and head? Did he look funny? Was she gonna laugh? Was she gonna point at him and inform the others about the odd boy at the back of the room?

Why was he even here?"

"Hello?" a voice said and a pair of red shoes appeared in Hamish's eyesight of the floor. "Are you the new boy?"

"Who are you?" a boy piped up.

"It's the new boy silly!" a girl giggled and Hamish carefully lifted his gaze to see a blond girl give a short boy a playful nudge. "What's you name."

"What's your name?" the dark haired girl asked and placed her hands on his desk.

"H-Hamish." he stammered while shaking and give the girl a short gaze before looking down again.

"That's an odd name." the blond girl said with a frown and Hamish felt cold inside.

"I think it's cool." the short boy said and called for one of his friends named Terry. A slightly taller boy with red curls appeared in front of the desk and Terry gave Hamish a smile.

"D'you like lord of the rings?" was his question and Hamish lifted his gaze again.

"Y-yes." he answered and Terry beamed.

"Me too!" he cheered happily. "We're playing lord of the rings on recess, d'you wanna be Merry? You kind of look like Merry. I'll be Pippin and Miles'll be Aragon and Hannah's Legolas because of her blond hair and Jonah over there will be Gimli because he's so short and Catherine will always be Arwen because she's pretty." Hamish looked up at the dark haired girl who'd first made contact. She was indeed pretty and he felt a smile twitch his lips.

"Who's Frodo and Sam?" he asked and heard how his voice suddenly sounded a little braver.

"No one." Catherine smile. "Because we don't want one ring carrier. We take turns." That's when he noticed the metal ring hanging around her neck. Even though it was silver it was a pretty good prop. "You can take it now if you want too." She pulled it over her dark hair and handed it too him. "But if you start to feel mean or like you wanna do bad stuff you have to take it off and let someone else take it for a while because you might turn evil if you have it too long. I just started to feel a little mean so I thought I should take it off." Hamish took the ring and looked at the girl.

"So... you're nice now?" he asked carefully and held onto the string of yarn.

"It's just playing, silly." Terry giggled and ran off to his seat. The blond girl, Hannah, gave Hamish a last long stare before running over to Catherine to grab her arm and pull her over to their desks.

"He's cute." she whispered loud enough for Hamish to hear and the boy felt a shiver travel down his spine. With wide eyes he turned to John who sat by the wall, smiling widely and rubbing his neck.

Maybe one and a half hour was a little to short.


	5. A war wound of his own

School was going fine. More than fine. Perfect in fact. The first couple of weeks was put on ice since Hamish didn’t want to have to much hope. Anything could change any moments and if that was the case he didn’t want to be too heartbroken. 

Now on the other hand everything was fine. Hamish even got a best friend. Catherine was a lovely girl. Bright and full of imagination she never seized to make Hamish laugh. Also he’s got friends, more than he can count on one hand and the past birthday filled their flat with enough children for Sherlock do have an actual panic attack. He’d locked himself in his room for the last hour of the birthday party and left John to handle it himself. 

Hamish was so head over heals when it was over he couldn’t sleep when the time came. All John could do was smile as Hamish told him about everything his friends had said and done, even though John had been there to hear and see it for himself. 

Their son was finally back into his energetic self and neither of the parents could be happier to see him like this again. He was laughing loudly again, talking without feeling any sort of fright of saying the wrong things that could make people laugh at him. Everything was good and dandy and John did even notice some changes in his husband. There was a playful twinkle lurking in his multi coloured eyes that hadn’t been there since Hamish was five. A twinkle that John had missed so much that when he noticed it two days ago as they played around with Hamish he felt his heart take a jump in his chest. 

Things were finally back to normal and John could finally call his son a very happy boy, something he hadn’t been able to do in three, long years. His confidence was through the roof and once again he’d started urging his fathers that he was indeed ready to come with them on cases. He was nine after all, without doubt old enough to test his abilities to deduce. 

Sherlock agreed. 

John did too, vaguely. 

And after a long dry season something finally turned up and Sherlock stumbled out of the sofa to get himself dressed. Hamish, who at that moment, was snacking on some leftover cake from his birthday party jumped in surprise as his father flew up and turned his head to see where he was going. He recognised the behaviour and discarded the cake in a very Sherlock-manor. By placing it on the floor. 

”Was that a case?” he shouted as he ran after him into the bedroom. ”Dad!?”  
”Get clothed.” Sherlock ordered as he stripped in the middle of the bedroom. ”Hallway in two minutes.” Hamish ran. 

 

 

 

”What’s it about?” the boy asked in deep excitement as they sat in a cab three minutes later. ”Kidnapping, murder?” 

”Stealth.” Sherlock answers and looked up from his phone. ”Shouldn’t be too complicated. But remember to always be careful. Don’t leave my side and if I get into concentration, don’t interrupt me because that may effect the end results of my solutions.” Hamish nodded, decided quickly that it might be best if he didn’t speak at all when Sherlock said something that brought a bright smile to his lips. ”But if you notice something than please, I’ll always be happy to hear your opinions.” He nodded and wished that John didn’t have to be at work today. He would have loved for his both fathers to be there on his first day. 

They arrived on the crime scene thirty minutes later and Hamish followed his father through the museum with corridors like a labyrinth. He did not want to get lost in here with the ancient artefacts, mummies and runes. Holding onto the black coat he hurried his little feet to keep up and soon he heard the sounds of active radios and small chats in a distance. Turning the corner he saw the police force, guards of the museum and Sherlock sighed loudly. 

”You’re ruining the scene!” he shouted and waved his hands angrily. ”Lestrade? What is this madness? Why are all these people here?” Hamish took off and Greg’s face lightened up when he saw the little boy come running towards him.  
”Hey, little lad!” he called out and fell into squat to catch him in his arms. ”I haven’t seen you in ages. You’re almost as tall as me!” Hamish giggled and Leaned into the touch of Greg’s hand on the side of his face. 

”Shut up.” he laughed and gave him a small nudge. ”I’m here to work. Not to play.” Greg chuckled and stood up straight to meet the detective who already had started to investigate. He didn’t need any information to get things started. With a loud sigh, Greg turned to the boy again. 

”So how’s the new school treating you, ey?” 

”Marvellously.” Hamish smiled and gave him a quick glance. ”Sorry, not here to small talk either. I need to work.” He ran over to his father who at the moment gathered samples from the dust on the floor. 

”What’s stolen?” Hamish asked in a whisper and sneaked real close to his father. 

”An egyptian relic, worth more than you can imagine.” 

”I can imagine.” Hamish laughed and borrowed his father monocular to look closer on the box that’d hidden the artefact. ”Seems like it was opened with a crowbar.” Sherlock chuckled. The information was nearly useless, but he was impressed that his nine-year-old son could tell. 

”Really? Explain.” Hamish pointed at the markings on the wood. 

”Two markings with a centimetres distance between. Here and here. The lid is slightly chipped and the nails aren’t broken or crocked. Crow bar.”  
”Indeed.” Sherlock smiled and put his samples into containers. ”Good. What else?” 

Hamish looked around, noticed a black spot on the floor which he quickly examined. 

”Cheep trainers with lousy rubber shoes. Like the kind you boy at traveling street markets. If the robber left this I would say he’s doing this for money.” 

”Excellent.” his father beamed as he kept working. ”Tell me more.” 

This was Hamish’s playground. He’d never enjoyed the swings or the slides in the park as much as what that stain on that particular mans sleeve might have come from. People’s stories where always more interesting than tag and hide and seek. And as his ability to deduce grew the prouder his fathers seemed to be. What could be more satisfying than that. 

There were many things he noticed and Sherlock seemed impressed by his words. Hamish loved it and he held onto his hand tight as they made their way out on the street again. The caught a cab that took them to the lab and they chattered eagerly about this case. Well, Hamish did while Sherlock mostly listened. It was exciting indeed and the boy couldn’t have been more proud of this day. It was the summer break and they had all the time in the world to do this together. 

Hamish enjoyed every minute of it. 

So did Sherlock. 

 

 

 

 

Two days later the case was solved and Hamish couldn’t have been prouder of himself or his father. It had been an adventure to say the least, lots of running, shouting, tracing, accusing and solving and Hamish was on a rush when they stepped into their calm home again. 

”That was amazing!” he shouted and jumped up in his father’s embrace, flung his arms around his neck and squeezed hard. ”Thank you for letting me come! Thank you thank you!” With a chuckle Sherlock moved them over to the sofa, allowed them to fall like timber to the cushions where they finally caught their breaths. The boy snuffled close and rested his head on his shoulder, felt his limbs ache after all that running even if Sherlock had carried him on his back half the time. 

”Did you see the look on mr Frans’ face when we found him?” he asked eventually but suddenly noticed the deep breaths his father drew. Lifting his head he could see how he was sleeping. Hamish chuckled and stared for a moment. It was a privilege to see him sleep. It was a rare moment in the boy’s life that he got to witness something like it since his father never really rewarded himself with any kind of rest. Looked like it finally caught up on him, Hamish thought and traced a finger over Sherlock sharp jawline. How quickly had he fallen asleep, really? Two minutes? 

He pressed a quick kiss to his chin and slipped off his lanky frame, fetched the blanket folded over the armchair and draped it over his father, continued to untie his shoes which he neatly placed by the door and then he took another long look. He truly was a heavy sleeper once he finally was asleep as John once’d put it. 

Hamish sighed and leaned over to rub his left leg. Something must have happened during all that running because something was aching. Maybe he was growing or maybe he was just sore. Whatever it was it was annoying. Maybe there was something he could do to keep his mind off it. 

The kitchen still smelled sour of some corrosive liquid Sherlock had been playing with earlier this week and a foul stench hit him in the face as he opened the fridge for something to nibble on. He closed it quickly and took a new breath before holding his nose. Maybe a meal was out of the question up here. But there was another solutions. 

 

 

 

 

John found his son in Mrs Hudson’s flat as he returned from work and smiled as he saw him laughing at the table while snacking on sugar cookies with pink icing. Cream stuck to his nose after the hot chocolate and cocoa powder on his sleeves he talked happily to the elderly woman about his birthday party. 

”Hello.” John greeted happily and the old woman and young boy turned to him with big smiled that always made the doctor feel at home. 

”Papa!” Hamish shouted and slipped off the chair, hurried over the floor and John noticed the distinctive limp the moment he took his first step. ”We solved it!” John waved it aside and lifted him off the floor, kissed the cream of his nose and smiled as his son eagerly told him the details of the case which John listened to and overlooked all the exaggerations. 

”That sounds amazing!” He grinned and swayed him back and forth where they stood. ”And where’s papa now then?” 

”Sleeping.” Hamish giggled and wiggled his left foot like he tried to shake off an itch. John noticed, but didn’t question it. 

 

 

 

Two days past. The pain was still there. 

 

 

 

A week later Hamish pulls down his trousers to step into his pyjamas when he notices the redness on his skin. He traces the patch covering most of the front of his shin, it’s hot. Burning. 

He’s scared. 

 

 

 

”Papa?” he croaked one morning with a huge lump in his throat. The kitchen was filled with sour fumes and the steam from the pasta water and John tore his gaze from the stove to see the devastated look on his son’s face. ”My leg hurts.” His father abandoned the food and made his way over the floor to lift his son up on the counter. 

”Which leg?” he asked and wrapped his hands around his ankles, he looked calm, Hamish wanted that look to stay after he saw what hid under his trousers. 

”Left.” he quaked and grabbed the edge of the counter as John pulled it up. The patch was swollen by now and the burning was getting more intense while touched and as his father pressed his hand he couldn’t help but wince. Even worse, he could tell by his father’s face that something was wrong. He asked the same question he asked every time he was sick or in pain. ”Is it fatal?” 

”No.” John said quickly. Too quickly. And he’d smeared on that fake smile which only made Hamish feel worse. Then he said something which only made his feel worse. ”But let’s just take a trip to the hospital to be on the safe side, okay? It might be a small infection or something.” With a frown Hamish shook his head and felt the tears fill his eyes. 

”It’s bad, isn’t it?” he questioned in slight panic and stared at the red swelling on his leg. ”It’s been hurting for a week. I should have said something sooner.” 

”Hey.” John interrupted and cupped his face. ”Don’t worry. I’m sure it’s nothing, okay? A small trip. In and out.” 

 

 

 

 

In and out wasn’t the case. The doctor took one look at the leg, kneaded it with his fat hands while Hamish pulled the paper cover in pain and then the man sat silent for a moment. Something must be wrong. 

Next came the blood tests, more squeezing, second opinions from other doctors and that’s when John made a nervous call to Sherlock. The man answers with his monotone voice, yet John had never been so glad to hear him. 

”Sherlock.” he quaked, voice echoing in the bathroom. 

”John, I’m in the middle of cutting open... ”

”I don’t care what you’re about to cut open.” John fumed, sank down on the closed toilet seat and rubbed the side of his face. ”Something’s wrong with Hamish.” 

”What d’you mean wrong?” 

”We’re at the hospital.” John continued and noticed how he trembled. ”His leg’s hurting. I thought it was an infection but... it might be something else.” 

”Something else?”  
”They’re doing an x-ray in an hour and..” He let out a huge breath and tried to keep it together. ”He really needs you right now. I- I need you.” 

”Fifteen minutes.” Sherlock said simply and hung up. John opened his eyes that he never realised he’d closed and looked up at the yellow wall. There was somewhere he needed to be which wasn’t here, but that place was just so painful right now. He needed a moment. Just one tiny moment to collect himself. 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock arrived as promised at was devastated by the state of his son. Arms were pricked and the boy was pale, shaking with fear and on the brink of throwing up. But he couldn’t care less if his son would ruin all of his clothes right now. He tossed his arms around him, held him tight and whispered words of safety into his head while carding his hand through his waves.

Even if the doctors hadn’t given them any thoughts their silence scared them the most right now. It was like they feared the worst and didn’t want to tell them about their beliefs until they were certain. John didn’t know if he ever wanted to know. 

As soon as both his parents were there the boy was hurried into x-ray and John stood beside him in the green apron, held his hand and made small talks that seemed to get Hamish on better thoughts. Joking about how silly the green aprons looked at John the boy actually giggled; it was a relief to hear that childish laughter.  
”You look like a whale.” Hamish smiled and John’s jaw went slack as he heard him. 

”Oy, isn’t that a bit offensive?” he asked and rubbed his little fingers that grabbed into his hand. ”They’re not even green.” 

”We know more about the backside of the moon than our own seas.” Hamish said. ”There might be green whales. Only we haven’t discovered them yet.” John had to feel the burn on that one and he pressed a quick kiss to his hand before he had to back away for the doctors to take the pictures. 

 

 

 

 

Hours passed and Sherlock sat on the bed, Hamish tiny form resting in the triangle of his legs, half asleep as he rested his head to his chest but still trying to concentrate as Sherlock read from the book. The pain in his legs was really starting to bothering him and he tried to shake it off now and then; it didn’t work. 

”Papa?” he cried suddenly and looked up from the page with a quivering chin and tired eyes. ”My leg is vibrating.” John lowered yesterdays newspaper and peered at his little family on the bed. ”It really hurts.” 

”Handsome.” he sighed with a broken smile and got up from his seat, saw the tears clinging to the boy’s eyelashes and the cold sweat pearling on his forehead. ”The doctors will fix it for you, okay. It’ll be over soon.” A small sob slips Hamish’s lips; he’s afraid, of course he is. All of them are. Whatever this is the doctors are way to quiet to give them the thought that this is nothing. 

Sherlock was, as always, good at hiding his emotions. He’s been there and strongly stayed by Hamish’s side since he’d arrived while John, on the other hand, always made excuses to flee to the bathroom. The air in the room was infected with worry and he couldn’t stand looking upon his son and think those thought that penetrated his mind. 

The doctors came back two hours later with their papers and John flew up from the mattress and turned on every part of his brain so he could read their faces. Holding on to Hamish’s slack hand he was thankful that the boy was asleep. They boy wouldn’t hear the news from someone unknown but they could pass it on to him in their own words. 

The doctor looked up from her chart with big eyes and her lips pressed together to a thin line. 

She took a deep breath and looked at the both men. ”I’m so sorry to inform you that Hamish’s been diagnosed with sarcoma.” 

The world collapsed around John, the corners of his eyes blackened and he held onto the only thing that seemed real in the world, the only strong source there was left. 

Sherlock. 

The rest of the doctor’s words where muffled by his own pulse and the grip around Sherlock’s arms was hard as a vice. Reality had left; and so might Hamish. 

Please not Hamish. 

”Wha.. How’s that possible?” John quaked and cleared his throat, holding back the anger bubbling up in him while tears formed in his eyes. His voice was breaking and he clenched and unclenched his jaw in panic. 

”John.” Sherlock growled and sneaks his hand into his, twines their fingers together and hold him hard. 

”No! My son has been through enough these last couple of years! This is not possible. Is someone actually TRYINT TO TAKE MY SON AWAY FROM ME!?” His chest heaved and he staggered on the spot without actually going somewhere. The world was cruel and he knew that more than well, but if it decided to take Hamish John did not want to be a part of it anymore. 

”John.” Sherlock tried again, standing true and steady beside him, his eyes focused on his husband, burning deep into him and filled with his own fright. 

”No! NO!” John fumed and turned to Sherlock with a crumpled face- This wasn’t John. This was something Sherlock had never encountered before. Something toxic, dangerous and how was he supposed to hold him down? ”This is not happening! This is just some bloody joke! Some godforsaken, sick joke and I’m not having it.” He looked up at the poor nurse and shook his head. ”Test him again.”  
”Sir, I... ”

”TEST HIM AGAIN!” John shouted and held out a blade like hand. The nurse ran off without another word and Sherlock felt the panic rise as he was left alone with the highly explosive soldier. John had never scared him like this. 

As the door closed poor John deflated. With a huge sigh he sank down until he was sitting on the cold floor and he curled up into something dangerously broken that Sherlock had never seen. He stared. 

”John?” he mumbled and blinked, slowly falling in to squat beside him and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder; readied himself to ask the question nagging his mind. ”What’s sarcoma?” The crumpled man lifted his head that was completely blank of everything and that scared Sherlock more than any other expression. How bad was their son’s condition? John blinked, turned to his husband with a furrowed brow that made him look ten years older. 

”Cancer.” he said with a small voice that froze Sherlock’s guts. Those might have been the words he expected, but not he ones he hoped for. Hamish was a ten-year-old boy, full of energy, talkative, clever and bright. He couldn’t have cancer. Old people get cancer. He staggered to his feet again, turned to the small boy sleeping on the bed. 

”They might be wrong.” he quaked and reached out for the boy’s hand resting on his chest. squeezed it firmly while he observed his sleeping features. His little boy. Cancer? 

 

 

 

 

”We need to do a biopsy.” the doctor informed them as the results from the MRI showed clear signs of the sickness. ”We need to make sure if it’s in the muscles or in the bone.” 

”The bone?” Sherlock asked and looked up from his son that now was sleeping with Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him. Since the moment he’d understood the concept of what was going on he’d crawled up on the bed, placed himself as close as he he could get to the small boy and cradled him carefully. He understood; but that doesn’t mean he wanted to. 

John squeezed the boy’s hand, kissed his tiny fingers before giving the doctor a small nod. 

”Will you sedate him for it or...” 

”Yes.” the doctor said and gave a loud sigh while giving the small family a fond look. ”Is there someone we should call? Or d’you want someone to talk to about what’s going on?” 

”No.” John answered simply and shook his head, felt the first few tears prickling the corners of his eyes. ”No, please. Just...” He cleared his throat and brought Hamish’s hand to his lips again. ”We’ll manage.” 

 

 

 

 

”Dad?” Sherlock opened his eyes and was met by a pair of beautiful, green blue eyes that observed him. Hamish blinked, twinned some of Sherlock’s curls with the hand John had held all night. ”I need to pee.” The detective smiled, carded a hand through his waves, kissed his cold nose before hugging him a little tighter. 

”Okay.” he whispered and lifted his head to catch a glimpse of his husband sleeping in the hard chair. His back would without doubt complain after this. ”Let’s be quiet so we don’t wake papa.” Hamish let out a small giggle and nodded eagerly; feeling just like a detective as he and his father sneaked through the room and into the bathroom. Sherlock waited outside; it had been a long time since Hamish felt their need of their help during these visits and the detective strode around the room while he waited. 

”Where’s Hamish?” a panicked voice said and he turned to John whose eyes searched the room in fright. 

”In the bathroom.” Sherlock calmed and hurried over to stop him from running in there. ”John, he can manage on his own.” He grabbed him by the wrist moments before he reached the handle and John stopped himself in his tracks; hand clenching into a hard fist. Of course Hamish could manage, but the need to protect him had grown into something more than parental. It was a desperation; John felt the urging need to always know where he was and what he was doing because... he might lose him. 

”I know.” he convinced himself and backed away from the door. ”I know.” He took Sherlock’s hand, turned to him and fell into his warm embrace. This wasn’t the time to cry, but the tears started to fall down his cheeks and onto Sherlock’s shoulder. He didn’t dare to open his mouth or breathe because then he would sob, and sobs would definitely alarm their little boy. His husband held him, buried his nose in his short hair and took a deep breath. John kept him right. Dear, sweet, John. 

 

 

 

Hamish came too two hours after the sedation and John was there to greet him. He held his hand in his and stroke his messy waves carefully. It was time to tell him. It was time to let their little boy know what was going on and John’s stomach ached like nothing he’d ever felt before. 

”Hello.” he whispered and nuzzled his nose. The first thing the boy did was giggle and John responded with a small laugh. ”You tosser. What’s so funny.” 

”Your nose.” Hamish croaked and reached out to pinch it. ”I understand why dad loves it so much.” John let out a breathy laugh and kissed his forehead, long and lovingly, kept his lips there for a moment while thinking of words that might seem easy in his ears. 

”Sweetie.” he started, and already then Hamish furrowed his brow; papa never called him sweetie, and John noticed that he’d already raised the bar of anxiety. ”I need to tell you something, something important that might seem scary, and it is a little scary but.. ”

Hamish gave him a weak laugh and laughed nervously were he laid, looked at his father with a furrowed brow before asking the question he always turned to in situations like this. 

”Is it fatal?” He’d expected a direct answer; that his father wouldn’t do what he just did. John seemed caught in his words and he looked at his boy with big sad eyes. 

”Not if we fight it.” he answered suddenly like he’d just forced those words over his tongue, that’s when Hamish understood the grave danger he was in. ”D’you understand that, handsome?” 

He did, but that didn’t mean he actually wanted to. The corners of his eyes darkened and his papa was suddenly everything that was important in the room. What did he mean? What did they have to fight? ”It’ll be a hard and a long fight, but me and dad will be there to the end of it. I promise. You won’t be alone a single moment during this.” Hamish trembled on the bed, grabbed onto John’s shirt and tried to be brave. Tears started to from in the corners of his eyes and he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. 

”Wh-what’s wrong with me?” he asked and chocked on those words. John scoped him up from the bed and climbed up until he was cradling him close. 

”I’m not gonna lie, love.” he whispered and let his bury his face to his chest. ”But you’re very sick. And it’ll take some time before you’re healthy again. And to be healthy there’ll be some things we need to do that might not be that pleasant. This year will be hard and long, but we’ll get thought it.” Hamish let out his first loud sob and pulled his shirt to get closer.

”Dad?” he asked while holding his voice low, he knew he would scream if he didn’t keep calm. ”Where’s dad?” 

”I’m right here.” a dark voice answered and a long arm wrapped around him; the spidery fingers splayed themselves over his chest protectingly and he felt a pair of lips press to the back of his head. ”I’ll always be here.” 

Hamish cried even harder. 

 

 

 

The bone cancer was confirmed later that evening; John’s world shattered. Sherlock didn’t say a word, only staring blankly into oblivion while he kept Hamish on his lap; the book they read together forgotten in his hands. 

Treatment would start tomorrow after that the MRI came through with clearer pictures of the tumour. Right there and then the decision would be made just how big the dosage would be and they would estimate the date when the operation might take place. 

Hamish was a very brave boy. He didn’t make as much as a sound when the doctor explained this to them; he only blinked while holding Sherlock’s hand, playing with his fingers. 

”We’ll make sure that everything will be swift and easy.” the doctor promised and gave the boy a warm smile. ”There’s nothing to worry about, Hamish. You have two great daddies right here that I’m sure won’t leave your side and neither will our nurses.” She sighed and placed the chart on her lap. ”Now, I’m sure you’re eager to go home to get some proper rest. This hospital isn’t that funny, is it?” Hamish turned in Sherlock’s arms until he could wrap his arms around his neck. 

”Let’s go home, handsome.” the detective whispered and felt the tears drip to his shoulder. ”We’ll put on some movies, have some sweets and maybe we’ll call Greg to keep us some company.” Hamish nodded. 

 

 

 

 

 

The tap is running freely in the bathroom and Sherlock tries to listen to the sounds hiding behind it. The sobs are too silent. He looks down on his feet, takes a deep breath before his lifts his hand to knock on the door. 

”John?” he murmured and places his head to the wall beside the door, traced the handle with his slim fingers. ”Please.” He turned it and pushed the door open. John was sitting in the dry bathtub, legs drawn close to his chest and tears coming unforbiddingly. All crumpled and broken he sat there, head resting on his knees and arms wrapped over his greyish hair. Sherlock moved forward without a sound, stepped into the bath and sat himself down in front of him; wrapped his arms around his legs and leaned forward until his chin rested on his knees. 

”Hamish’s sleeping.” he explained carefully and sniffled. The sobs continued and Sherlock observed. ”I think he’s alright, got a bit worried when you left, though, but Greg cheered him up quickly.” John whimpered and pulls at his hair. ”I made him laugh. God, was that a relief. It was a tired one but it was still a laugh.” John huffs under his breath and then continues to cry. Sherlock gives him a troubled smile he can’t see and wipes the tears that slips down his cheek. His voice cracks when he begins to speak again. ”He understands. More than he probably should. I know he’s scared but he.. um.. he hides it well. He’s a Watson after all.” He finally managed to get a laugh out of John and with that the evening felt somewhat complete. John lifted his heavy head and looks at Sherlock with a smile that quickly fades. 

”I can’t lose him, Sherlock.” he sighs and lets his head all back to the wall. ”He’s been through enough. He does not deserve this. What’s happening?” He rubs his eyes and reached out to turn off the tap. ”It’s like something wants to tear us apart. Have we wronged someone?” Sherlock chuckled and wiped his nose. 

”I believe I’m not the man to answer those questions.” he said. ”But I do believe that if there’s a child who could get through this without problems, it will be Hamish.” John’s head fell to the side and his face brightened as he smiled at his husband. As a cat he crawled forward and into Sherlock’s arms, placed his head on his shoulder and let his husband wrap himself around him. The detective held him tight and took a deep breath of his scent. 

”I do love you, Sherlock.” he croaked and let some few tears soak his husbands shirt. ”But I sometimes wish you weren’t so bloody smart.” 

 

 

 

 

 

A sticker looking like a cartoon dinosaur was placed over the IV and Hamish looked at it with contempt. That prickle had hurt and that sticker did nothing to make it better. 

”There we go.” the nurse said and pushed a button on the machine under the bags of liquid. It started to drip and Hamish followed it with his eyes as it slowly reached his arm. 

”Is it gonna hurt?” he asked carefully and pulled his ear as he always did when he was uncomfortable. 

”Not even a little.” the nurse smiled and turned her back at them to check another patient at the other side of the room, a couple of years older than Hamish. 

Sherlock sat down beside him in the soft armchair and reached out to card his hand through his soft waves; watched him with worry but kept a warm smile on his lips. He looked tinier that usual, he’d shrunk since yesterday and his eyes had lost the playful twinkle that Sherlock liked so much. 

”We have a surprise for you when we come home.” he whispered and saw a spark in the blue green colours. Hamish looked up at him with big eyes. 

”What?” he asked and turned to John who was leaning against the wall. ”What is it?” John winked. 

”You’ll find out once we get home.” he said with a smile that only made Hamish more eager. For some few seconds there he forgot about the illness and Sherlock took a mental note. 

”Is it a playstation?” he asked. ”Or a new bike? Please, let it be a playstation.” Sherlock laughed and pulled his legs up on the seat. 

”Better.” he promised. 

 

 

 

 

They hardly made it in through the door before Hamish turned pale green. Sherlock, quick as ever, picked him up and brought him over to the sink while John fetched the bucket. The whimpers where turning rapid but he managed to keep it down until his father arrived back. He threw up while still being in Sherlock’s arms and then the tears started to fall once more. 

”There we go.” John murmured and brought them over so Sherlock could sit down with him. ”One problem out of the way.” 

”Is it gonna be like this every time?” Hamish asked and took the glass that was given to him. 

”Maybe.” John said with a worried frown and kept the bucket in place under him. ”If you’re lucky you might get used to it.” 

”Lucky?” Hamish asked and looked up at him with a face mixed with humour and hatred. With a sigh John leaned forward and kissed his clammy forehead. 

”You know what I mean.” he said caressed his cheek. ”I’m sorry.” 

”It’s not your fault.” Hamish moaned and heaved fruitlessly over the bucket. ”It’s what I have to do now, isn’t it papa? You’ve had your war, dad’s had his, now it’s my turn.” Those words made John’s heart ache more than they ever had and he clenched his jaw hard. 

”Yes, but you’re only nine.” he said with a breaking voice; reaching out to caress his cheek. 

”Old ‘nough.” he whimpered, threw up a third time. With a loud moan he fell back in Sherlock’s arms, rested his spinning head on his shoulder. ”God’s. I need to lay down.” The detective nodded and stood up with him in his arms. Ever so carefully he brought him to their bedroom and the boy landed amongst the soft duvets and pillows when the nausea kicked in again. 

”Bucket!” he whimpered and rolled over on his side to lean over the edge. He vomited painfully and let out a frail cry. This was terrible to say the least, no wonder his fathers were so worried for him. Back to breathing again he felt Sherlock rub his back and keep him from falling off the bed. His eyes had turned dark and tired; like he’d aged ten years in just two days. 

”You had a present for me.” he said the moment he remembered and let our a huge sigh while someone cleaned the corners of his mouth. 

”Maybe it should wait until you’re a little better.” John whispered. Hamish didn’t have time to disagree before he fell asleep. 

 

 

 

An angel walked through the room; or so the older lady Watson would say when a long silence lingered in a room. Not a word had been uttered for two hours; but right now no words could really explain the thoughts hanging around in the air of the Holmes - Watson bedroom. 

Sherlock, who sat in the armchair by the window, could only stare at the boy. All crumpled and pale. There was nothing healthy. He was like a flower filled with aphids, half eaten and weak. The detective hated himself when he couldn’t look at his boy and see something beautiful anymore. The sickness had taken him, and for each day it would either get closer to its goal to take him away forever, or it would slowly release its grip; give him back to them. 

John sat beside their boy in the bed, computer resting on his lap. Once and a while he spared Hamish a glance, just to make sure that he was still breathing, that he didn’t go whiter or possibly to make sure that he was still there. Sherlock didn’t know which one of them seemed more plausible but when John lifted his gaze and put them on him he knew that the calm silence would break. 

”You okay?” he asked; his voice considerably calm despite the day they’ve had. Sherlock lowered his hands from his chin and took a deep breath. 

”Is there something more we can do?” he asked. ”To prepare him I mean? What will happen when he starts to lose his hair for example? Or if the treatments doesn’t work.” 

”They’ll work.” John said quickly and broke their contact by looking down at the computer again; but this were not where Sherlock wanted to leave it. 

”But John...” 

”They’ll work.” John hissed angrily and looked up again, eyes burning as he stared at Sherlock. ”They’ll work because right now I don’t really have the energy to wonder what will happen tomorrow when today was bad enough. This is what we have to do now Sherlock and neither you or me can do anything about it this time. If we’re gonna go around all year thinking about what might happen tomorrow we’ll live every day fearing it. Hamish doesn’t need more of that right now.” 

It his Sherlock like a flyswatter to the face and he closed his mouth before he said something stupid. But suddenly he felt the need to ask something important. Something that could help him understand. 

”Is that how it was in the war?” 

John swallowed hard and his face softened. 

”Yes.” he answered simply and closed the computer a fraction. ”Every night we made it back to the camp it was a celebration because we’ve survived another day. While tomorrow might be the day that you didn’t.” He sighed and rubbed the side of his face like he was in pain. ”You never spoke about the tomorrow.” Sherlock closed his eyes; took a deep breath and wondered if he could actually smell the cancer if he concentrated well enough. 

”So you’re telling me we should celebrate every day he survives.” 

”Well.” John said and sighed heavily. ”Maybe not with a party but... Maybe with something simple, or maybe weekly. I mean, it’s not like we can have cake every day.” Sherlock grinned when something suddenly hit him. 

”I think I have an idea.” 

 

 

 

 

The world was swimming when he opened his eyes again. The white ceiling above him was bright enough to hurt his eyes and he tried to blink it aways. 

”Papa?” he croaked when a warm hand was placed on his forehead and a familiar face started to hover above him. 

”I’m here.” John murmured and brushed his thumb over his eyebrow. ”Think you could get up?” 

”Yeah.” he croaked and was helped on his feet. The nausea was nearly gone, but he felt weaker than ever. His leg felt sore and as he followed his father into the kitchen the strong smell of coffee that made his stomach turn again. 

”Papa?” he croaked and stopped in the hallway between the kitchen and bedroom. ”Could we open a window?” John turned and gave him a worried glance, understood quickly and hurried into the kitchen to open the small widow by the fridge. Hamish stayed in the hallway, trying to take deep breaths to calm his stomach that protested against the treatments. 

”Hamish?” He looked up to the doorway and saw his papa standing there, a glass of water in his hand and the other reaching out for him. ”C’mere. Dad has something to show you.” With a yawn breaking his face, he padded into the kitchen and took his warm hand. 

”Is it my surprise?” he asked and dragged his feet along after him. John said nothing, but the boy noticed the soft smile on his lips. There was a secret indeed and Hamish suddenly forgot about the daze in his head. ”What is it?” They entered the sitting room and that’s when he heard the sound of something scraping against the floor. He looked down from his father and saw the black brown puppy sprint against him with it’s red tongue ready to greet his owner. Hamish gasped and fell to his knees with a big smile on his lips. 

”Hello.” he chirped and closed his eyes as the puppy licked and whiffed his face eagerly. ”Who are you?” 

”Her name’s Martha.” Sherlock murmured and put the leach away on the table before kneeling beside him. ”And she would really much like to be your friend.” The boy let out a small sob and hugged the small dog with his weak arms. This might not be what he’d expected; but it was a thousand times better than a playstation indeed. The tears fell upon Martha’s dark fur and he kissed her head while her tail whipped against his thigh. 

”Hello Martha.” he sobbed and petted her with a trembling hand. ”You’re something I never knew I needed until today.” Martha barked once and then placed her head on his shoulder; like a baby trying to sleep. Hamish looked up at Sherlock with red rimmed eyes and sniffled. 

”Thank you.” he cried and hugged the little dog a little tighter. ”She’s wonderful.” Sherlock smiled and scratched Martha behind her ear. 

”She’ll need a lot of care. We’ll need to walk her every day, feed her, brush her. And I’m sure that she’d like to play in the park as much as she can.” The boy wiped his tears and sighed loudly before looking at Martha again. 

”I’ll take good care of her.” he said and carded his fingers through the dachshund’s curly fur. ”I promise.” He turned to John who crouched beside him. ”Thank you, papa.” 

”We believe that you need someone like Martha right now.” he smiled and kissed his temple. ”She’ll be waiting for you every day you come home. We’ve bought a bed for her so she can sleep in your room. You’ll never be alone with her.” 

Hamish sighed; it sounded like a relief and Martha looked up at him, licked his nose and whiffed his cheek and ear. 

”Don’t you dare experiment on her.” he said suddenly and looked up at Sherlock with a smile who chuckled. 

”I would never.” 

 

 

 

The second present was something that had Hamish frowning as he looked at it. A series of books was sitting on a very special shelf before him and he looked at it; wondering. The covers where replaced with new ones, only one colour and a number written on the back. 

”For every day we’ll read a chapter.” Sherlock explained and pulled out the first book. It was marked with post-its inside and Hamish stared. ”When we reach seven chapters we’ll celebrate by doing something fun. When one book ends there’ll be a surprise for you.” Hamish understood and turned to Sherlock with a big smile. 

”So it’s like a calendar?” he asked. ”For each day I go through we do something to make it through to the next?” Sherlock nodded, bit down on his bottom lip and pulled him into a great hug. 

”Clever as always.” he smiled and kissed his temple. ”And there are many books there that need to be read so you know what you have to do.” The boy nodded and took a huge breath of his father’s scent; buried his face deep into the crock of his neck. 

”It’s war dad.” he whispered. ”And I intend to win.” 

 

 

 

 

Martha jumped up on his bed and snuggled close under Hamish’s chin; sighed loudly as he started to stroke her fur. That’s when Sherlock understood that the bed they’d bought for her was a waste of money. 

”When do we have to leave tomorrow?” the boy asked and looked up at his father with tired, grey eyes. Sherlock pursed his lips and held back his groan. 

”Around eleven.” he said and sat down on the bedside. ”The operation will be booked sometime next week so you’ll have some days free. D’you wanna go back to school or...” 

”Yeah.” Hamish gasped and nodded eagerly. ”I have to tell Catherine about Martha.” His father smiled, carded his hand through his hair and leaned down to kiss his nose. 

”There’s something you need to understand.” he whispered like it was a secret and felt his stomach twist in pain. ”When people get to know about your illness, they will start to treat you differently.” Hamish frowned. ”It’s a common human response and it will be horrible in the beginning.” 

”What d’you mean differently?” The bed dipped as Sherlock crawled down beside him and Martha lifted her head to see what was going on. The detective wrapped his arms around them both and place his head on the pillow. 

”When someone’s sick, people starts to see that person as fragile. They’ll be careful around you, choose their words carefully and always seem a bit on edge like they’re scared and... Sadly there’s not much anyone can do to change them.” Hamish blinked, placed his weary head on his shoulder and hummed. 

”You and papa won’t do that, right?” he asked worriedly and reached for Sherlock’s hand. 

”Not all the time.” he smiled. ”But we’re still worried about you.” Hamish understood. 

 

 

 

 

The news hit them like shrapnel from a grenade and John stumbled backward onto the chair; landed heavily and covered his face with his shaking hand. This could not be happening. How could something like this be even possible? 

”You..” Sherlock stuttered with his arms wrapped around himself, eyes darkened by the lack of sleep and his curls in a mess on his head. ”You need to take his leg?” The doctor before them sighed loudly like he shared their sorrow; Sherlock hated him. 

”The tumour hasn’t gotten smaller, and we need to remove it before the cells moves to his lungs.” he explained carefully. ”We need to remove it a couple of inches under the knee. The healing process will take four to six months and then we’ll of course make him a prosthetic. In a year he’ll be up at walking like a normal boy again.”

”Yeah.” Sherlock scoffed angrily. ”If the cancer is cured! It’s a leg we’re talking about, for god’s sake! You’re not just cutting it off without trying something else first.” 

”Sherlock.” John sighed and lifted his heavy head; his medical knowledge poking him in the back of his head like an annoying thought. ”This is the only way.”  
”We’re not crippling Hamish!” Sherlock fumed and looked down at John with burning eyes. 

”Then how are we supposed to save him?” John inquired and lowered his hands from his face. This is the only way to get the tumour out of his body and we should be pretty thankful that it’s his leg and not his arms.” 

”Thankful?” Sherlock fumed and gave him an evil frown. ”He’s sick and we should be thankful for him losing a less important limb? He shouldn’t be losing any limbs at all, John!” 

”I agree!” John shouted back and got up from the chair to face him. ”But yes! We should be thankful that there’s something we can actually do than just sit by his bedside and watch him fade!” 

”Oh look at you, all doctored up!” Sherlock said with disgust and looked at John like he wasn’t worth more than a worm in the dirt. ”Is this easy on you? Talking about our boy like he isn’t any different from your own patients?” 

John lost his footing and stumbled backwards; gathered himself quickly before locking eyes with the horrible side of Sherlock that had appeared. The man was panting hard, shaking without control and John grabbed his arm hard enough to bruise.

”Sherlock...” he said sternly and moved in on his personal space. ”If this is the way you’re gonna act, I think you should leave. This isn’t about you or me, but about Hamish. And if you can’t be his ground of safety right now it’ll only make him worse. He needs you. I need you. But not... this side of you.” The detective, whose mood had suddenly changed, stared at his husband with blank eyes; darkened by anger but deepened with fear. 

”I do not want this, John.” he spelled out carefully and shook his head in disbelief while the first tears glittered in the corners of his eyes. ”Please. We can’t bring this upon our boy.”

He cried. 

So did John... 

 

 

 

It had never been so hard to tell something to Hamish. The boy who could understand the most complicated things; the boy, who already in his young age, had learnt to feel sympathy and who knew more words than anyone in his class, would probably never understand this. He was about to lose a limb; he wouldn’t be able to walk on his own for perhaps a year and there was nothing they could do about it. 

Their son waited at home with his granny; Martha sleeping in his lap while tears streamed down his face. Mrs Hudson had her arms wrapped around him and John felt his heart leap by the sight. 

”What happened?” he asked and hurried over the floor to sit on his other side. A loud sob forced its way up his throat and he held up his little fists for John to see. Strands of his dark locks was balling up in his hands and John held back the terrible gasp. He knew this was coming, still he wasn’t ready for it. Sherlock stared from the other side of the room. 

”It started when you left.” Hamish sobbed and let’s the hair go for the first time since he gripped it. It fell into John’s hands and his father helped him to get it all off his sweaty palms. ”I was scratching and...” He swallowed hard and wiped his heavy tears. ”Is there nothing we can do?” John was silent, and Hamish understood. The lack of words is somehow better than empty promises and he seized to cry and stared emptily at his feet. He seemed out of hope all of a sudden and John felt his heart grow heavier. How was he supposed to tell him? 

With a heartbroken sigh he looked over at Sherlock, called out for help without a single sound. The detective understood and gave a slight nod.  
”Hamish?” he murmured and sneaked over to the sofa; stepped over the table and bowed down to press a kiss to the top of his head were patches of skin showed through his dark hair. ”Maybe we should let Martha sleep somewhere else for a while and let granny sneak back down to her place.” Mrs Hudson understood, nodded and wiped her tears before leaving the flat without a word. Sherlock held his head like it was something fragile and noticed how he was shaking. ”Hamish. I want to pick you up.” John took Martha and placed her on her blanket beside the sofa; Sherlock embraced their boy and held him tight. For the first time in ages he said something Hamish didn’t hear that often. 

”I love you, Hamish.” he whispered and sank down on the cushion. Tears started to fall down his cheeks and he sighed loudly while he kissed his temple. ”I love you so much.” The small hands clung to his jacket and Hamish sighed heavily, too tired to sob. But he managed to whimper the same phrase to them both, over and over before he asked the question that’d been gnawing his mind since they left. 

”What did they say at the hospital?” he asked and rested to his collarbone. The blue green eyes were fixed at John, the father who always knew what was going on inside people. Mentioned man closed in and wrapped his arms around them both. Hamish caught on and closed his eyes, let the tears roll again. ”Bad news?” 

It’s impossible to hold it in and he cried helplessly with his family. A nod is all he could manage to give and Hamish frowned in sorrow. 

”What’s happening now?” he asked and placed his forehead to Sherlock’s neck. His younger father brought himself together and pressed a hand to his cheek to bring him closer. 

”You’ll have a hell of a war wound.” he said painfully and saw how John took his hand in his. ”The year just got a little harder.” John kissed away the tears and nuzzled his nose. 

”But you’ll be fine, love.” he whispered. ”They’re gonna operate you in two days. That MRI they did on you yesterday showed that the tumour in your leg hasn’t gotten smaller so they have to remove it soon before the cells spreads to your lungs. And since it hasn’t gotten smaller they’ll have to amputate.” 

”Amputate?” Hamish asked with a frown and didn’t bother to open his eyes. He didn’t understand the word. 

”It means..” Sherlock began and buried his nose in his sparse waves. ”That they need to take the bad bone away. They have to take your leg.” 

The little body on the detective’s lap got stiff and John noticed how more waves had gotten loose in his hand while he’d been stroking his hair. 

Hamish didn’t seem surprised, but that didn’t hurt him less. He was hiccuping now, tired of it all and he let out a deep moan of disgust and pain. 

”Hell...” he said shamelessly and felt himself getting smaller and smaller were he sat. ”First they take my health, then my hair and now they want my leg.” He opened his eyes and looked at John with dark eyes, tears still falling. ”Will it make me better?”

”We hope.” John cried and brought him over to his lap; peppered his face with kisses and wrapped his arms hard around him. ”It’s the best we can do now.” 

 

 

 

The best they could do. The words were ringing in Sherlock’s ears like church bells and he was sure it was the same for the poor boy lying between them. The small dog’s tail brushed his arm under the cover he watched them both. The animal was keeping their boy safe with nothing more than it’s presence and it had been a long time since he’d felt that connection, but he was glad that Hamish at the moment did. 

Martha gave him a worried stare; like she knew that her owner didn’t feel well; like she knew that she might be ownerless if the sickness took him. Her brown eyes flickered between them while her nose buried deeper to the crock of Hamish’s neck. 

Hamish had cried himself to sleep this evening; and neither of his parents had been able to do anything about it. Their cuddles and hugs had done nothing to soothe him and Sherlock had panicked when his breathing got thicker.

”It’s the panic.” John had said. ”Nothing to worry about.” Bullshit, had been Sherlock’s thought at that; there was nothing more worse that could worry him at that moment than Hamish not being able to breathe properly. Stupid John. 

Stupid cancer. 

Martha gave a small moan and rearranged herself on her owner, licked his jaw and crawled a little closer to his face like she was trying to comfort him. A nightmare was coming, and the dog wasn’t the only one to notice it. Small, laboured breathes were forcing its way up the child’s throat, scratching him and tearing and Sherlock could only stare for a moment. What was the best thing to do? Really? Waking him up to the horrible reality there was, or letting the dream carry on because it might not be as worse? 

”Hamish?” Sherlock saw John reaching out for the boy’s arm and he did nothing to stop him. The father squeezed the limb worriedly, shook him slightly while the boy shivered between them. ”C’mon, love, wake up.” The dog stumbled out of the way, stood by the end of the bed and barked loudly to help Hamish wake up; like she knew that this wasn’t normal. 

”Sherlock?” John plead, looked at his husband with eyes overwhelming with helplessness and sorrow. But what could someone like Sherlock do to help this situation? This was what the sickness had turned Hamish into; a small vessel filled with fear, pain and sadness. He turned to the only thing he knew might help. Reaching out he wrapped his arms around the heaving boy, pulled him close to his chest and placed his face close to the nape of his neck. 

”There we are.” he whispered and rubbed his back with his big, warm hand. ”Things will be alright.” The small child whimpered to his skin; every breath laboured in his throat and his hands clutched the duvet hard. ”We’ve got you, Hamish.” Martha went silent and turned to Hamish’s feet, teased them with her wet nose and whines worriedly as Hamish breaths turns more ragged.

”I don’t wanna die!” The voice was muffled but the clearest thing Sherlock had heard in days. The world had during the past weeks just been a heavy blur, but then he started to understand what actually was going on. His son might leave. And not just their home or London, but this world entirely. His baby boy whom he once cradled close to his chest when he wasn’t bigger than a loaf of bread; their little boy that had pulled at his trousers for attention when he could hardly speak and the little boy whose blue eyes once had looked up at him and said dad for the first time. 

”I wont let you.” he whispered and buried his nose in his thin waves. ”I will never let you die.”

 

 

 

It had been a days since the doctor had told them and Hamish decided to take the weekend with ease. They walked the park with Martha, while he still could walk, visited granny, while he still could climb the stairs. Hamish had done as much as he could think of that he wouldn’t be able to do later. He was even laughing for a while when he, John and Greg played tag in the park, Martha running after them both and barking. Sherlock, on the other hand, was standing by the tree line; wondering how long it would be before he could see Hamish run again. 

Hamish shrieked as Greg gained on him, laughed loudly as he was lifted into the air and begging for mercy as the copper hugged him tight. Even he had been affected by all this. His long arms was wrapped securely around the little boy and he kissed his temple. Hamish buried his face to the nape of his neck and sighed loudly. 

”I’m not gonna die.” he whispered so only his uncle could hear. Greg frowned and forced his tears to leave his eyes. 

”I know.” he said and fixed the knitted hat on his head to cover his ears. ”I know you’re not.” With a huge sigh Hamish nodded and left the subject on ice. Maybe it was nothing more than his imagination but it seemed like those words made the people around him feel a little calmer. It might not be a promise; but white lies could be good sometimes. Or so John had said. 

 

 

 

The same day the four of them, and Martha, climbed back to the flat for some saturday tea. His leg was aching but he ignored it the best he could. The smell of cookies was filling the air and he caught a glimpse of granny poking around in the kitchen. It felt like this saturday was a celebration for something; like the upcoming operation deserved deserts and sweets and was welcome. And maybe it was.  
”Hamish.” Sherlock called and unzipped his jacket. ”Maybe you should get out of those shoes.” It was a good idea, granny would never forgive him for trampling mud into the carpet; or maybe she would in his condition. Anyway he kicked them off and pulled the hat off his head when he saw the many strand of hair sail to the floor like light, dark, feathers. For a moment, he stared. It was more this time and he raised a hand to feel. Then he noticed the silence around him and knew that he’d been spotted. There was now clear proof what was going in inside his body and from now on he wouldn’t be able to hide it. Everyone would know. Everyone would be able to see. 

Tears formed in his eyes and he stared at the dirty carped in the hallway, begging for the people around him to go away. He opened his mouth to beg them not to look at him but nothing more than a tired whimper left him. If he was more like his dad, maybe he would be able to accept what was going on, but he wasn’t. He was nothing like his dad. 

”Oh dear.” he heard the old woman weep and the damns broke to let the tears fall freely down his cheeks. 

”God dammit!” he cried and looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes. It was the first bad words he’s ever said in their presence but at that moment he didn’t have much else to say; and no one complained. He sighed heavily and dragged himself passed them all, fell down on the sofa and stared emptily into the room. He was done. This sickness was taking everything from him; eating him from the inside out like maggots.

”Hamish?” John kneeled before him, took both his hands and kissed them lovingly. ”D’you remember that thing we talked about yesterday?” Hamish nodded and wiped his tears to his shoulder. John smiled, but was still frowning worriedly. ”I think it’s time.” 

That night Hamish said goodbye to his hair. The last few strands sailed to the bathroom floor joined by his heavy tears, but he knew this was for the best. It would happen anyway, this was just his way of not letting it without his permission; still it hurt. He raised his hands and touched his scalp; he was bald now, all his waves gone for god’s knows how long. Without a word he slipped off the chair and made himself prepared to move over to the mirror and take a look. He just wished he wasn’t so alone in this. 

”Wait.” a voice said from the door and he looked up with a tearstained face. Greg was smiling at him. ”We’re not done yet.” And without any explanations he sat down on the chair where Hamish previously sat and wrapped a towel around his shoulders. ”Go John.” And John went. 

Tears got only heavier as strands of grey hair joined the dark ones on the floor. Hamish couldn’t believe his eyes but neither could he hold back the small giggles. For every hair leaving Greg’s head he felt less lonely. 

”There.” John sighed as he placed the machine on the counter. ”All done.” The copper turned to the boy, took his hand and smiled. 

”Let’s take a look then, shall we?” 

They spent the next twenty minutes in front of the mirror laughing at each other. Both of them bald; looking like newborn babies and Hamish almost screamed in laughter as Greg started to complain that he had a lumpy head. The boy wrapped his arms around his waist and thanked him a hundred times while giggles and tears left him. He couldn’t believe someone actually did that for him, but at the same time he was glad it was Greg at not one of his fathers that did it. He would miss theirs; maybe he would miss Greg’s as well but not in the same way. 

”Don’t mention it, you tosser.” Greg grinned and kneeled before him, hugged him tight and kissed his cheek. ”There’s so much you have to go through in your own now, but I thought that... you know. At least there’s something you don’t have to do by yourself.” 

 

 

 

 

Hamish said goodbye to his leg the next morning. He hadn’t said a word all morning or even shed a tear. He seemed prepared, but the truth was that he was in a state of shock. The doctors didn’t give him any calming words as they prepared him. They didn’t tell him what was going to happen or what they were going to do. All they did was mark his leg, look through his charts, prick him with needles and feed him nothing more than pills. 

Then he was taken away from his father’s only to come back with a little less of himself. 

 

 

 

 

He could still wiggle his toes. He had never been so sure on anything. After all her could actually feel them wiggle; on both feet. Looking up at his father in the hazy mist he forced a smile to his lips as he believed that maybe he got out of this still whole. 

”It’s just a phantom, love.” John whispered while stroking the pad of his thumb across his brow; that act was something that they did now, since there wasn’t any other hair to stroke. ”It might feel like it but...” He couldn’t bare himself to finnish that sentence. Maybe, for Hamish’s sake, it was better for him to believe that it was still there, rather than having him drugged and in panic for the next few hours. 

”But...” the boy croaked and furrowed his brow like there was a mystery to be solved. ”I can feel them.” 

Sherlock stared. A pillow big as Hamish himself had levered what was left of his limb. His knee and thigh was wrapped in so many layers of bandages he was sure it would take hours to unwrap them again. He would never see his son whole again. With a big sigh he reached out for his son’s limp hand that rested on the cover, kissed his slim fingers before placing his head on the same pillow as his son. 

”I’m wiggling them.” Hamish whined in protest before slowly slipping into a restless sleep; his body shutting down as this information was too much to process in his state. Sherlock did the same. 

 

 

 

 

Another dosage of chemo was pumped into his veins before he even had time to recover and John knew that this would be Hamish’s weakest moment. These days to come would be a make or break situation and he hoped that Sherlock understood that as well. They needed to be strong now; because that might be something that Hamish didn’t have the energy to be. They held his limp hands, rubbed his chest as he leaned forward to vomit and wiped his face with cloths drenched in cold water. 

All this had turned Sherlock white as a sheet. Like a circus animal locked away from its freedom, Sherlock didn’t belong in a tedious situation like this. He had agreed to domestic bliss; but not to this. He never agreed to sit beside a child fighting for his life. He hated it; but himself even more for feeling this way. All he wanted was to pull every IV line out of Hamish, grab him from the bed and run. Run as far away as he could and leave all this behind; but that would never be an option. This was the only way of keeping him, so Sherlock was trapped. It was hurting him and seeing his son struggling to breathe was his breaking point.

”John.” he murmured when he was sure that Hamish once again had fallen asleep with a mask covering his face. His husband looked up from the bowl of cold water were he wrung out the towels and saw Sherlock shaking on his chair. The cloth fell to the water with a splash and the bowl threatened to tip over the edge, but John didn’t notice. He hurried around the bed and caught his husband moments before he broke apart and his shoulder muffled the first sob that was more a shout of despair than anything else. His long fingers clawed his back like he tried to crawl inside him for comfort and warmth and John held him tight to silence his sobs and screams. 

”Help him, John!” he shouted as if John was the greatest healer of all times; filled to the brim with secrets and spells that he’d promised some higher power never to use in these parts of the words. ”Get him out of this! Please!” He was angry. Of course he was angry, wasn’t every one they knew angry right now. But no one as much as Sherlock. He might not have said much during the last couple of days but what was there to say. He couldn’t do anything. This sickness had him outnumbered and what was his titles worth now? Father, consulting detective, high functioning sociopath. There was nothing he could say, do or deduce to help his son. 

”Don’t you think I would if I could?” John asked and grabbed a handful of curls to bring Sherlock closer. ”We’re doing what we can, Sherlock. There isn’t much left to do now.” Sherlock drew a huge breath and gathered himself as quickly as he’d lost it. He swallowed the rest of his tears and relaxed in John’s arms. For once he’d let go, let the feelings take the command and now it was enough. He squeezed his John tight and sniffled miserably. 

”Tell me he won’t die.” he said calmly while resting his forehead to his shoulder. John hummed heavily and fell down on his lap. 

”He won’t die.” 

 

 

 

He didn’t die. After two days of heavy sleeping, pumped full with medications, sedatives, anaesthesia and other fluids, Hamish woke up. Skin as grey as a cloudy sky and eyes dark he looked up and saw a big mess of curls. Trying to move he found himself as useful as a jelly, all wobbly and fragile, when someone placed a hand on his forehead. 

”We’re right here, love.” John told him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Hamish let out a breath and blinked as he realised what he’d just been through. 

”Me too.” 

 

 

 

They’d crossed a bridge; but that didn’t mean they might need to cross more during their journey. Maybe they could see it like they’d just crossed the most dangerous one, the one only made out of rotting tree planks and ropes. Maybe the others would be stone bridges but that didn’t make them less fragile as long as the enemy had the right tools. No, the danger was not behind them. 

Hamish stared at his stump in disgust when they uncovered it the first time. The bandages covered it of course, but that didn’t make it less compelling. 

”It’s cut under the knee so when you get your knew leg you’ll still be able to bend it.” John said with a uncertain smile; after all this wasn’t a good situation to be smiling in but neither could he look miserable. ”You’ll be able to run after your father in no time.” Hamish croaked and made a troubled face. 

”I can still feel it.” he said with a troubled voice. ”I know it isn’t there but... I’m sure I can wiggle my toes still.” He stared at the place where his foot used to be, like he believed that he would see the ghost of it if he believed hard enough. 

”It might not be the thing you want to hear, but it will stop soon.” Sherlock explained and Hamish tore his gaze off the stump.  
”Will I feel my new leg?” he asked and scratched his head. 

”Unfortunately no.” the detective answered and rubbed his hand. ”But, you know, one foot less to be sore after too much running and walking.” Hamish laughed at that; and Sherlock was so relieved he let out something between a whimper and a giggle which made John’s face break in two by his huge smile. 

”You’re stupid, dad.” he giggled and leaned into his hand as he caressed his cheek. ”I hope my new leg looks cool. It’s one hell of a war wound, isn’t it, papa?” John was taken aback by his words, squeezed his hand with a pout on his lips, but he still couldn’t bring himself to give Hamish a warning for his language. 

”Yes.” he murmured and closed his eyes to get himself out of the moment for a while. No father should stand over their child and explain things like this. The world could be so horrid. A knock on the door pulled him out of the second of bliss and he was met by the sight of a bald Greg, which now always would bring a smile to his lips. 

”Greg.” Hamish croaked and reached out a weak arm to make him come closer. 

”Hello Hay.” he chimed and stepped over to the bed with a hunched back that made him look shorter and older. ”How’re we doing?” 

”I live.” the boy giggled with a tired voice and grabbed his sleeve with his floppy hand. 

”I never thought otherwise.” Greg chimed and pulled a big box out from behind his back. A big bow was adorning the lid and Hamish’s eyes grew when he saw it. 

”For me?” he asked stupidly and reached out his hands to receive it. It was heavy and wrapped in blue, shiny paper with pirate skulls on it. He teared it open before anyone had the time to blink and looked down on the content to find a huge load of different sweets, a horror novel very not suited for his age and and a collection of movies that Hamish always wanted to watch when he was visiting his uncle. The boy looked up at him with glittering eyes and a pinch of colour returned to his face for the first time since the operation. He couldn’t believe what he was holding in his hands. 

”Thank you!” he said happily and wrapped his arm around Greg as he bowed down to hug him. 

”Now make sure you don’t eat it all at once.” the man said and came up with tears shining in his eyes. ”I don’t think your fathers would appreciate that.” 

 

 

 

His dear friend Catherine came to visit the day when he for once could sit up in bed without any support for more than an hour. She’d brought him a present as well, a box of cheap chocolate and a rose with a card attached to the stem with a golden band. She paled noticeably when she saw her friend on the bed and her mother had to push her through the door for her to understand that she was staring. 

”Hi, Hamish.” she mumbled shyly and placed the gift on the side table before crawling up on bed to wrap her arms around him. ”Mom told me I could hug you because it isn’t contagious.” Hamish giggled at her stupidity and hugged her right back with shaking arms. 

”Are you scared of me?” he joked and fell back on the bed with a slight thud, all this sitting up hugging was making him dizzy and he looked at Catherine who pursed her lips nervously. She tried very hard not to look at his leg, but he knew that she had many questions about it. ”You can look at it.” He didn’t have to say it twice before she turned to his leg; stared at it with wide eyes. Just like Hamish she couldn’t believe what she saw.

”Does it hurt?” she asked after a while and threw herself back on the bed to lay beside him. 

”Sometimes.” he sighed. ”But the nurses make sure that I get enough morphine all the time.” 

”Morphine?” Hamish giggled sadly at that. 

John, who’d yet hadn’t brought himself to small talk with Catherine’s mother, felt warm by the scene. It was the first time he’d seen Hamish interact with someone his age outside the school and it felt weird somehow; like letting him go for a bit.  
”Catherine’s very fond of him.” the mother said and John turned to her; wondered how dark his circles had gotten under his eyes and what the woman must be thinking about their son. After all Hamish had his reputations because of his fathers. 

”Really?” he said rubbed the side of his face where he felt the horrible stub. The woman reached out her hand and he shook it well. 

”Georgia.” she explained. ”But everyone calls me George.” 

”John.” John sighed tiredly and managed to bring a smile to his lips. ”Sorry, I haven’t slept properly for several days.” 

”No one blames you.” George said with a careful smile while tilting her head to the side, showing her sympathy. ”I can’t understand what you must be going through.” Neither did John. Right now it just felt so normal to live like this. Hamish had been in this room for five days now, it had been two weeks since he was diagnosed. It all had happened so quickly but yet they’d gotten used to it like it was just how the world was supposed to be. 

”Well...” he said without really knowing how to finnish the sentence. ”It could have been worse.” Could it? Did he just jinx it? Just to make sure he reached out for a doorframe and knocked it three times. George smiled and did the same. He looked back to the bed where the children laid next to each other, looking through the covers of the movies Hamish had gotten yesterday and giggling as they joked and told each other stories. 

”Her grades has gotten better since she met him.” George explained and leaned back to the wall. ”And her attitude against me and my husband. Jim met him when he picked her up one day and said that he most be the most intelligent kid in whole London. One look was all your boy needed to understand that he worked as a night guard.” John couldn’t help his laugh and the woman studied him. 

”Yeah. He gets that from his dad.” he grinned and George looked confused. 

”Oh, you’re not..”

”Yes, I am.” he said quickly. ”It’s my husband, Sherlock. He just stepped out to get us some coffee.” George eyes went wide with surprise and held back a happy gasp. 

”Oh! I see. I just didn’t take you for... You know.” She shook her head and closed her eyes in embarrassment. ”Sorry, I...” 

”It’s okay.” John grinned and fell back on the chair when he felt his legs wobble under him. He needed coffee. Or sleep. And like on cue, Sherlock stepped inside with two carton cups steaming with hot coffee. He stiffened when he saw the woman in the room. George, on the other hand, looked like she’d seen messiah when she laid her eyes upon him. 

”Hello.” she gasped and Sherlock frowned before turning to John looking like a question mark. 

”This is George.” John explained and took his coffee. ”Catherine’s mother.” The detective turned to the bed where he saw the little girl giggling with Hamish. 

”Oh.” he said and shuffled over to the sofa by the window, clearly not interested in making small talks. 

”He.. is not the most social one.” John explained and felt slightly off when George couldn’t stop eyeing his husband. He might have understood her if she wasn’t married herself. 

”It doesn’t matter.” she giggled and stroke some strands of hair behind her ear; clearly seduced by just the sight of Sherlock. John had gone from liking the woman to wanting her out of the room. And above all that she did this beside a boy’s potential death bed. 

”So, George.” Sherlock said with an ounce of hatred in his voice. ”You do realise I’m gay, happily married and not slightly interested in you, am I right?” The woman went white as a sheet and stumbled backwards to the door.

”Excuse me?” she gasped as a blush crept up to her cheeks. 

”You’ve clearly seen us in the papers and is now here to gaze upon me. Only because your relationship is ending doesn’t mean ours is as well.” 

”Sherlock!” John fumed, not even remotely relief now that the problem was out in the open, because on the bed, Catherine lifted her head and looked at George with big blank eyes. 

”I knew it!” she piped up and John noticed how Hamish squeezed her wrist nervously, shrinking where he sat and scared that his father had just ruined his and the girls friendship. 

”Don’t leave.” he whispered and lowered his gaze to his lap. ”Please.” George collected herself and drew a huge breath. 

”Well...” she croaked and cleared her throat. ”Dad will pick you up by five.” Then she fled the room without another word leaving her daughter on the bed. That was possibly the last they’d ever see from her and John turned to his husband.  
”Sherlock.” he fumed and nodded to the door. ”A word.” Sherlock had compromised their son’s friendship with a loverly girl just to put a woman in place. He needed a good talking too. The detective followed him unknowingly out the door when John suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bathroom. ”What in the hell d’you think you’re doing?” His eyes were burning with anger and Sherlock frowned at him in the yellow lightning. 

”What?” he inquired and noticed his husband’s heaving chest, his clenched fists and jaw. 

”You don’t act like that in front of Hamish’s friends or their parents.” He had to keep his voice low, he couldn’t risk their son hearing them both. Sherlock scoffed and looked at John like he was crazy. 

”Didn’t you notice what she did?” he asked and waved his hand to the closed door. ”Standing at our sick son’s bed, flirting with me!?” 

”That woman is the mother of one of the few friends Hamish has got. You could have ruined their friendship right there and then! How d’you think that would have been for him!?” With a gasp of realisation Sherlock took a few steps backwards and John knew that he’d proven a point. ”I was just as pissed as you when she started flirting but we should just have let it pass without a word. She would have left but you just had to prove to her that you were clever. And like that’s not enough, you spoke about her ending marriage in front of her daughter. That something no one wants to hear about from someone who aren’t their parent!” Sherlock’s face went slack and he stared blankly at John whom now had calmed before him. He rubbed a hand to the side of his face and sighed loudly and Sherlock lowered his gaze. 

”I’m sorry.” he mumbled and lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. ”I didn’t... Oh gods. I just don’t know how to handle...” He fell backward onto the closed toilet seat and buried his face in his hands. ”I just wanna go home. I don’t want him to be here. It’s no healthy.” With a huge sigh John made his way over to the curled up man and placed his hands around his head. He kissed his beautiful curls and took a deep breath of his scent. He could accept that apology. 

”It’s okay, love.” he whispered and rubbed his thumbs to his temples. ”Just a few more day, then we can bring him home.” 

Catherine’s parents separated the same week, but the girl didn’t seem bothered. Her father brought her to visit a few days later and she looked happier than last time. Relieved almost and John could easily say that Sherlock’s words might have brought something good to the family. Some people weren’t just meant to be together to the end. 

He looked at his husband across the room; saw him drooling on the pillow that levered his weary head. They were a different story. They were meant to be. And they were meant to have that little boy on the bed. There was no way on the world they would let him go. Ever. 

 

 

 

 

There was a surprise party waiting for him at the flat when he was released from the hospital. Mrs Hudson, Molly, Greg and even Mycroft was there waiting for him and the first three mentioned cheered happily when hew as rolled over the threshold. Although, he looked awful. He’s lost several pounds, dark circles around his eyes and a hat pulled over his head to cover up his scalp. Still, he managed to feel cheerful at the sight. Martha barked loudly and John caught her before she took an uncoordinated jump onto Hamish’s lap. He put her down carefully and she whined in sorrow when she realised that her owner was still sick. Hamish wrapped her arms around her and kissed her cheek. 

”Hi, love.” he squeaked and stroke her soft fur. ”I’ve missed you.” She jumped down on the floor and ran over to John who quickly kneeled to pet her; Hamish looked up at the party in the flat.

”Hi!” he croaked and lifted his arms as Molly leaned down to give him a great hug. 

”Welcome home.” she beamed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. She pulled back to take a good look at him. ”Up for some cake?” He nodded, but only to not appear as sick as he felt. The truth was that everything that touched his tongue only tasted like iron or copper. Greg wrapped his arms around him and hugged him as tight as always, sighing loudly as he did so and rubbed his back with a firm hand. 

”Hey there, little lad.” he smiled and looked down at the blanket draped over his lap. ”No new leg yet, huh?” Hamish grinned and shook his head.

”Not yet.” he answered and let himself be pushed to the table where Molly buried a knife into a big chocolate cake. 

He didn’t eat much, only a couple of spoons before he felt his throat thicken. Eating was hard while being on the treatment and he put the spoon down and looked up at Mrs Hudson. 

”Has Martha been good?” he asked and sipped his cold lemonade. 

”Oh, she’s a real sweetheart.” his granny sang and played with her necklace. ”But she’s missed you, dear. There’s no doubt.” Hamish had missed her too. He’s missed everything about home. 

 

Weeks passed and Hamish kept in fighting. Sherlock had read through six books and was in the middle of the seventh when John had brought crutches home from work. Hamish hadn’t looked so excited for a long time and he pulled them out of his hands and got into position to get up from the chair. 

”Don’t help me!” he warned and put his foot on the floor. ”I can do it.” Sherlock watched with anticipation from the other side of the room, arms wrapped around himself and nearly shaking. With a heavy grunt the boy heaved himself up and John held out his arms to catch him if something went to wobbly. It was like watching him walk for the first time again and his father’s smiled when her took his first step forward. 

”There we go.” John chimed and moved out of the way as Hamish made an attempt to turn. ”Look at that!” Hamish let out a laugh and looked up at Sherlock with big, bright eyes. 

”Dad!” he said with a wide smile and brought himself across the floor and fell into Sherlock’s protective arms. His head buried to his chest, he rubbed a hand across his shoulders and observed him with pride. 

”Getting there.” he said with a voice filled with new hope.” 

”Getting there.” Hamish echoed. 

 

 

 

 

They quit chemo and started with radiotherapy three months after the operation and Hamish felt like this treatment was way better than chemo. He felt nothing during the procedure or after and for once he actually felt fine. No nausea, no funny taste, no headache or anything. It was an odd feeling after all those weeks and he couldn’t quite get over it that things felt fine. He didn’t feel dying for once. 

He made his way out of the hospital on his crutches while John kept an sharp eye on him. He was still wobbly but he’d built up a strength that kept him on his foot. The moment he stepped outside to the chilled spring air he looked up at his fathers with a craving he hadn’t had for a long time.  
”Can we make toffy pudding tonight?” he asked and John absolutely beamed when he realised that his son for once had an appetite.

”Of course love.” he said happily and grabbed Sherlock hands. ”But we need to drop by the market to buy some dates first. What d’you want for dinner?” 

”Anything’s good.” the boy grinned and felt ready for anything right now. After all, he hadn’t tasted food for a long time. 

 

 

 

His hair started to grow back three weeks after radiotherapy. No one had expected it and the morning Hamish stumbled into the bathroom and found a stubble on his head the whole world needed to know. He shouted loudly and hurried into the sitting room without his hat and almost tripped over the carpet.  
”Look!” he said and stopped in front of Sherlock in his chair. ”Look!” He bowed his head and showed him the dark stubbles. ”It’s growing back!” Sherlock tore his gaze from the bright computer screen and gasped.  
”Oh my, look at that!” he smiled and pulled him down on his lap after putting the laptop away. ”Brilliant!” Hamish nearly screamed and he rubbed his new hair with eager hands. ”And that’s not the only new thing you’ll be getting today.” That only made Hamish more excited and he bit down on his knuckle so he wouldn’t scream. How could he have forgotten? If he was strong enough, and with a little bit of luck, he might just walk today without the stupid crutches. If he could, he would jump up and down but there was a few things holding him back. 

”I’m getting my leg!” he squealed and hurried away to get properly dressed for his visit at the hospital. This day had seemed so far away, but finally it had come. His leg was done and ready for him to make him walk again. It was a glorious day and the luckiest he’d felt in ages. They’d even reached book seventeen this morning and that was yet another celebration. Seventeen books was a good number and Hamish felt proud how far he’d gotten in all this. He could almost see the light at the end of the tunnel and soon he had two feet to run towards it. 

They met John at the hospital an hour later and Hamish pulled off his hat as soon as he had his hand free. His father had gasped and rubbed his hands over the soft stubble; gazed at it with big eyes and a huge smile. Hamish couldn’t decide what was best now, that he soon would be able to walk again or that his parents for once didn’t look so worried. 

They were shuffled into a cramped room where a doctor sat with a package in his hands and Hamish beamed when he was the one to open it. He ripped it open in the matter of seconds and for the first time he laid his eyes on his new limb. It was in a pale, fleshy colour just like his own skin, toes that would never be sparse and a mechanical wrist to make it bendable and withstand pressure. He stared at it for a long time before reaching our to touch it. He knew it wasn’t more than a practise leg; something for him to get used to it and to provide a softer bowl to rest his stump in. Right now it was sensible and easily sore and the doctors had told him that he needed to work up a more tough surface to it. It might take some time for him to be able to run again but right now he didn’t care one bit. 

”How do I put it on?” he asked and looked up at the young doctor beside him. On orders he sat down on the brits and the doctor unwrapped some of the bandages covering his leg, asked questions about pain, itches and tingling. He answered them quickly and watched eagerly as a silicone sock was rolled onto his leg, followed by another sock made of fabric like bandage and then the doctor reached for the leg. He explained carefully while he worked and Hamish listened. It was slipped into his stump and the boy twitched as he saw the completeness he’d missed. It was magnificent and he gave his leg a small wiggle and recognised the heaviness of what once had been there. 

”Can I stand?” The doctor nodded and John moved forward to take both his hands. Ever so carefully he stepped off the bed, held onto his father for dear life as he slowly put some weight onto the prosthetic, worried he would break it or that it would hurt. It was tender but not more than that and he swayed back and forth to see if he could get the hang of it. It was familiar, of course, but still foreign. He couldn’t feel the floor beneath his foot, nor could he wiggle his toes or tap his foot. But that didn’t matter, he was standing. Actually standing. 

”Take a few steps.” the doctor said and rolled away on his chair. The boy took a step. Then another, and another; holding onto John with less and less strength and soon he let go completely. He took the first step without help and giggled loudly as he did so well. 

Sherlock stood at the other end of the room, bitting down on both his lips to keep back the ridiculous smile twitching the corners. It was a wonderful sight. They’d gotten so far and it seemed unstoppable now. 

”Look dad!” Hamish shouted and hurried over to him with a slight limp. ”I’m doing it!” Sherlock fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around him; buried his face to his shoulder and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. 

 

 

 

They ended radiotherapy a month later. The cancer was gone from his system and the celebration was something Hamish had never quite seen before. Everyone was cramped up on their flat and Hamish hurried over to Greg who hugged him harder than ever. 

”I knew you would pull through, you little tosser.” he said and kissed his head were the hair had grown long enough for him to leave the hat aside. No one could really tell what Hamish had gone through at this point. His jeans were covering the prosthetic and there was no longer any pricks on his arms. He looked healthy, nourished and he was constantly smiling again. The limp was gone now when he’d gotten to know the feeling in his leg and Mycroft had promised him a new leg for his birthday. One that could withstand running and had a cooler design that he could choose. He looked forward to it but right now today was the happiest day. He might not be declared as healthy but the cancer was gone. In five years he would know for sure. 

”Told you.” Hamish reminded the copper and fell to his knees to hug little Martha who licked his face and made soft sounds to tell him that she was proud as well. He thanked her for her help. 

Mrs Hudson was crying as always, complimented him on his courage and held his hands as she continued to tell him what a good boy he’d been. He hardly listened, there was so much else to talk about now than the things that had been. 

They ate of the many cakes that Mrs Hudson and Molly had baked and drank tea and lemonade until Hamish started to wonder if one bathroom would cover them all. He looked at them all and wondered. How would their life have been if he hadn’t survived this. What would Baker street have become? It was a question he decided to never ask himself again and he blinked it away before he buried himself in it too deep. 

”For Hamish.” Greg said suddenly and raised his glass and the boy looked up from his plate only to smile. Everyone raised their glasses and cups and cheered happily. ”And fuck cancer!” Not as many repeated but they cheered just as loud and Hamish laughed loudly. 

 

 

 

That night Sherlock went to bed without a single worry in his chest. He landed amongst the sheets and let out a huge sigh that contained everything that had made him heavy the last couple of months. They were home; and here to stay. They were done with it. And it felt good. John landed beside him and sighed just as big as him, possibly feeling the same relief and Sherlock crawled close. 

”Here we are then.” John whispered and nuzzled his nose. 

”Here we are.” Sherlock smiled and kissed his lips. ”It’s as good as over.” 

”As good as.” John said. Sherlock prayed to any higher power that no more pain would cause their little boy. 

So did John.


	6. The comfort of home

It had happened suddenly. No one was prepared and no one had seen it coming. John had found her. It looked like she was sleeping peacefully, dreaming about her younger days. But she was cold as he caressed her cheek, stiff and gone.

Mrs Hudson had died on a Thursday. Telly buzzing by the window, John suspected that the last thing she'd seen had been one of the detective stories she liked so much. To be honest, that's the way he wanted to go. Unknowingly and doing something ordinary. However it didn't make the loss of Mrs Hudson any easier.

John sat down at her side and held her cold hand for a moment, gazed upon her with a teary smile while the news rumbled on on her telly like it was any other day. He was used to death; he'd even been the cause of it sometimes, but today he felt something he hadn't really felt before.

A great loss.

How would England survive without this woman? She'd been the fire keeping Baker street warm, the water for the plants, the coffee in the morning, the shoulder to cry on and so many other things that John always would be thankful for. But now, at the age of ninety-two, she'd left them without a word. But that didn't mean she hadn't said goodbye.

Silently sobbing he thought back on the evening before. She might have reached an old age, but it didn't fit her mind or energy. She'd been running the stairs like any other day; dusting, complaining and talking until no one had the time to listen. It had been a good last day and the last thing she'd said was her wonderful words to wish them a good night. A night she wouldn't wake up from.

Drying his tears with his sleeve he picked up the phone from his pocket and stared at the number for his husbands phone, suddenly realising that he'd never seen Sherlock go through loss. How would he take these news? Sherlock was after all a complicated man and John didn't really know how to tell him.

Still sitting on the footrest in front of the old woman he cleared his throat and pressed call. Whatever Sherlock was doing at the lab he needed to get him home from there without telling him what had happened. He didn't dare to imagine what Sherlock might do without him there as it reached him.

"Yes.." the dark voice answered and John bit down hard to smother the sob. "John?"

"Erm.." he whimpered and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "I need you to come home. Right now. Something's happened." He heard Sherlock's breath hitch over the phone and he knew exactly what conclusion he'd turned to. The same they'd always turned to when one of them sounded worried.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked, frightfully prepared for news that the cancer was back. It was sad that that always was the thing they turned to at a moment like this but it seemed only natural.

"No." John said quickly and sniffled, realised how miserable he must sound. "Sorry, love. But I can't tell you over the phone. You need to come home."

Thankfully Hamish had left for school before John had found her which meant that John and Sherlock would be able to talk this through before they needed to tell him. After all he would probably take it the hardest and John did not lock forward to it.

 

 

Stopping all the clocks and covering the mirrors with table cloths and the like he waited around in her flat for his husband to arrive. He felt awkwardly comfortable with the dead. After all he'd been in practise at the morgue during his days at the university and he liked the calm about them. They were done and had left this world. There was a peace, and right now he'd never felt something like it while being in the same flat as Mrs Hudson. He knew her story, knew how much she had completed during her life and the kindness she'd brought to people. He mourned, of course, but he didn't feel sad.

Then he heard the door open in the hallways and he hurried out of the flat to find Sherlock half way up the stairs.  
"Sherlock." he called and wrapped his fingers around the railing hard enough for his knuckles to go pale. The man turned and gave him an odd stare before slowly making his way down again. John clenched his jaw and lowered his gaze for just a few seconds. He didn't dare to imagine what Sherlock beautiful eyes would hold after this.

"John?" the man asked with a worried tone and stopped before him. John sighed and lifted his head to look at him. He knows what's wrong, he can tell, but just as any other human being he can't bring himself to believe it. His eyes shifts between the door to Mrs Hudson, the only woman he's ever loved except his mother, and John.

"She passed away sometime during the night." John croaks and shakes his head like he can't believe it himself. "I'm so sorry." Sherlock stared, blinks like he's caught something in his eyes and a frown is born between his brows. "Do you understand?" Without a single warning he brushed past John and pushed the door open without a word. Eyeing the small space he can see so far he took a deep breath and turned to John, face different now; softer but with a hint of deep heartbreak that John knows he can do nothing about.

"Was it..." Sherlock began but couldn't bring himself to finnish that sentence.

"Very peaceful." John nodded and stepped forward to take his hand. "Just like she's fallen asleep in her armchair like she always does." Sherlock smiled at that, but his lips were tensed like he's forcing it. With a sigh he turned to the flat again and walked inside.

He stopped when he laid his eyes open her. John was right. It looked like she's sleeping. Even though she wasn't. Dressed in her favourite dress, lips still painted, cheeks blushed and nails purple she sill looked just as alive as ever. John squeezed his hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles. It must hurt, he thought, but Sherlock was sometimes hard to read. Right now he's just staring, chewing the inside of his cheek and blinking rapidly.

"Do you want to sit with her for a while or... be alone?" John asked him and licks his lips.

"No." he answered quickly and gave his head a quick shake before squeezing John's hand hard. "Just..." He turned to him with a stare that reminds John of a four-year-old; all scared and lost. "What do we do? Who do we call. Are we supposed to..."

"Let me take care of it." John said quickly and rubbed his arm. "I'll make sure a funeral home picks her up and if there's any family left we'll..."

"We're her family." Sherlock said quickly and swallowed painfully. "Her sister died two years ago. We're the only ones she's got."

"Okay." John nodded and wiped away a few more tears. "We'll take care of it all then. Choose a coffin, flower arrangements and..."

"She liked tulips." Sherlock said without taking his eyes of the lady in the armchair. "Yellow tulips." John nodded and sighed loudly.

"We don't have to discuss this now." he whispered. "Let's just call the funeral home so they can come get her and then decide how we're gonna tell Hamish." Sherlock turned aways without a word and disappeared out of the flat.

 

 

 

John made the call, gave all the information they needed while simultaneously keeping a secret eye on Sherlock. Said man had turned to his microscope the same moment he'd stepped inside their flat; working with whatever samples he'd brought home in the hurry John had given him while taking notes. John didn't like what he saw. Hanging up he stood in the doorway for a few seconds. Sherlock, on a usual day, had questioned his presence by now, but today he didn't pay any attention to his surroundings.

"Sherlock?" John tried and untangled his arms around his chest.

"Found some peculiar dust particles at the bathroom in Ms Wilkes' bathroom." he murmured and blinked down at the sharp light on the monoculars. "She might have been abroad or maybe it's export property she's ordered. She had a lot of odd objects from Asia, but then again one shouldn't be so quick singling things out."

"Sherlock." John begged again and tilted his head worriedly to the side.

"What, John?" Sherlock inquired with an angry heat in his voice that John hadn't heard before. He was taken aback but neither did he dare to leave the subject.

"I don't want to talk to you about dust particles right now when we have something much more serious to deal with."

Sherlock tore his gaze from the sample and turned to John with darkened, big eyes and a painfully clenched jaw.

"You've called the funeral home, haven't you?" Sherlock asked and John nodded. "Then what is there left to talk about right now." John scoffed and rubbed the side of his face. He couldn't believe this. It wasn't new to him that Sherlock had problems with showing emotions, but not even bringing himself to mourn someone for less than a minute was nearly tearing John apart.

"We've just lost a dear member of our family whom we've lived above for the last sixteen years, Sherlock." he fumed. "It's not something we easily put behind us." Sherlock shrugged and gave his head a slight shake, acting like he had no idea what John was talking about even, though, John knew more than well that he was holding it all back. "Sherlock, please?"

"I don't understand what you want from me, John." the detective frowned and fixed his clothing before returning to his samples. "I don't feel any need to talk about this until it's relevant."

"Maybe it's relevant for me, Sherlock!" John shouted, voice cracking and tears filling his eyes. Finally his husband looked at him with some emotion fitting for the moment. "Eighteen years, Sherlock." John was crying now, shaking and on the edge of breaking apart while his husband stared at him like a question mark. "It might not have been as long as you've know her, but long bloody enough for me to feel pain!" His husband stared at him with the same blank eyes and slanted eyebrow; like he still didn't understand what John was trying to tell him. And that was more than enough to make John feel utterly alone despite the number of people in the room.

"Sherlock?" he gasped in disbelief as the man before him still hadn't said a word. He ran; needed to escape the room before he did something drastic and it pained him that he couldn't share this with his husband.  
"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked and was answered by the door slamming to the bathroom.

 

 

John calmed himself just in time for the funeral home to come and pick Mrs Hudson up. He was the one to meet them at the door, to sign all the papers and to see the old woman being taken away from Baker street forever. It was an end of an era, and John couldn't let go of the nagging thought that he hadn't thanked her enough for their time together.

He retreated to her flat, cleaned and tinkered with whatever he could get his hands on to keep himself from climbing the stairs into their cold flat. He boxed whatever food or ingredients was left in her kitchen to bring upstairs, went out with the garbages, watered her plants and put the clothes away that laid in the laundry basket. Mrs Hudson was a tidy woman, and John needed to make sure that she left it that way. He made tea in her boiler and drank it stronger than usual, nibbled on some of the last cookies she'd baked and solved the rest of her crosswords. It was just a thought, that maybe if he finished what she'd left behind she wouldn't turn in her grave and come back to haunt them. He chuckled and the thought and looked out through the window when he saw a familiar boy cross the street.

Hamish was sixteen now; balancing on his prosthetic leg like it was his own flesh and blood and waiting for the last testing for him to be declared a cancer survivor for real. His hair had grown and was now dark and unruly like Sherlock's and John smiled at the pure site of him before dashing out to the hallway to greet him at the door.

Hamish entered with his eyes concentrated on his phone; tapping away eagerly and he nearly bumped into his father before he noticed him. With dark blue eyes he looked up at him and noticed at once that something was wrong. Without a word, he pocketed his phone and gave John a quick observation before understanding that something, indeed, was very wrong.

"Hi pops." he sighed and dropped his bag to the floor. John sighed, the smile glued to his lips as he grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into that loveable hug he'd needed all say. His son wrapped his arms around his back and squeezed hard, not questioning anything as he buried his nose to the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry, Hamish." he whispered and rubbed a hand over his shoulder blade. "But gran left us tonight." Hamish was no where near surprised; but that didn't mean he wasn't heart ¨broken. He squeezed his eyes shut and sighed painfully into John's shoulder; grabbed his father's shirt with his fingers and fought the tears. "Don't worry." John continued while crying silently. "She just fell asleep. I don't even think she noticed." A tiny sob slipped Hamish's lips and John pressed his lips to his thick waves and swayed back and forth.

It might sound selfish, but John felt a relief hearing Hamish cry. At last he had someone who understood (or was brave enough to actually feel). He hugged him a little tighter and told him that 'everything was okay' over and over until it sounded like a hymn and he meant it for them both.

"Is she still here?" Hamish asked carefully and pulled back to wipe the tears still flowing down his cheeks. John shook his head and sniffled miserably.

"We had her taken away and hour ago. But you can go into her flat and say goodbye if you want to. She'll hear you just as well in there." With a wet chuckle, Hamish nodded and glanced at the door that he'd entered so many times during his lifetime. It was hard to believe he would never visit her again. "D'you want me to come with you?" The boy nodded and John wrapped his arm around his shoulders to enter the flat with at his side.

To Hamish, the flat smelled different from yesterday. It wasn't as welcome or homey and he looked at the furnitures in the sitting room with tear filled eyes and a quivering lip. So many memories had wrapped there walls and he could point at every floorboard to tell a story of what had happened there. This flat was filled with a ghostly presence he couldn't explained. Not that kind that made you want to leave before something bad happened; but the one that made you understand that whoever had lived here made anyone welcome and would even in death still make sure that that was still the case.

Hamish felt the sudden urge to grab a cup of sweet tea and sit down, watch some crap telly and just lean back to... not really do anything.

"Where... did it happen?" he asked with an unsteady voice and turned to his father whom wiped his nose on a piece of paper.

"In her armchair." he said with a sad grin. "No real surprise, is it?" Hamish giggled and shook his head before making his way over to the chair that stood so comfortably placed in front of the telly. Placing a hand upon its armrest, he caressed it carefully like it would have been his granny's own arm and sighed loudly as he parted with the thought of her still being alive.

"That's just how you intended to go, wasn't it Gran?" he asked. "With your Ms Marple and Poirot?" He sat down on the footrest, just like John had did when he found her and the man smiled as he watched his son said goodbye. "Did she look calm?"

"Just like she was sleeping." he answered and padded over to his side. He needed to tell him about the ticking time bomb just a set of stairs away. Sherlock was at the moment a vessel tightly sealed with something that wanted out; but the man wouldn't let that happen. John had seen it before, and now when he had calmed down he'd come to an acceptance. After all Sherlock was a very complicated man that, despite the long time John had known him, didn't seize to surprise. But right now John knew that sooner or later something would happen to the man. And it wouldn't be pretty.

"Hamish." he murmured and joined him on the armchair. "You need to understand that dad is having a very hard time accepting this." Hamish nodded and wiped some more tears with the back of his hand. "If I know him well enough he will have his tantrums and bad moments but you know how to handle that by now, don't you." The boy nodded, looking more pained by those new than anything else and John pulled him close to his side. "We all have our ways to mourn a person we loved. We just have to accept that dad's way might be a little more..."

"Childish?" Hamish questioned without taking his eyes off the chair.

"Denying." John corrected. "Remember that he's known her longer than any of us. And all that she's done for him he sees her more like a mother than a friend. We have no idea what he's going through. Give him some time" With a loud sigh, Hamish nodded and lowered his head until he didn't have to look at the room anymore. "D'you want to bring anything upstairs? A photo or something." The boy said nothing. "We haven't really decided what to do with all of her things yet but... I just thought if there was anything you could think of that you want to have, you can just take it." A nod was all he was given and John kissed his temple. "We should get upstairs and talk to your father. I'm sure he would be delighted to see you right now."

Sherlock looked up from his notebooks as Hamish entered the flat and looked him over with quick eyes; noticed everything before returning to his work.

"So your father told you already?" he said with a flat voice and wrote down whatever was on his mind on the page. "You alright?"

"'guess." Hamish slurred and sniffled before sitting down at the table. Reaching for and apple he took notice to the detective's letters that obviously was out of character. They were wobbly and not as titled as they usually were; he took that as a sign that something must have rooted in his father from what had happened today. "Are you?" The man said nothing, and neither did his face.

The same went with John as he entered the kitchen; jaws tightly clenched he moved over to the pile of papers on the counter to locate the takeout menu. He couldn't bring himself to cook at a day like this and also their fridge was nearly empty despite all the food he'd brought up from the flat downstairs.

"Pasta for me, please." Sherlock demanded and placed a new sample under the lens. "Pesto, if they have." John placed the pamphlet upon his notebooks and did something the detective was not prepared on. Before he knew it arms were wrapped around his chest and John's lips pressed against his cheekbone. John was hugging his husband tight and hoping it gave something; but Sherlock seemed stiff.

"I'll get you pasta pesto." he promised awkwardly and Sherlock swallowed hard. "And maybe we could get some cake and watch some old movies tonight, huh? Maybe light a candle for her?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked and turned his head slightly to give his husband a questioning look. John shrugged and rubbed his chest lovingly.

"That's what people do to honour someones memory." Hamish said from the other side of the table and picked Martha up from the floor and held her like a baby as he scratched her belly. "I think that sounds like a great idea, pops. I'm sure dad feels the same." The boy looked eyes with his father, drilled into his mind with a sharp stare that left John speechless. The detective cleared his throat, took his hand off the microscope and wrapped it around John's wrist. With a warm squeeze he nodded and relaxed in his arms.

"Of course." he said and blinked once. "Okay."

 

 

They gathered in the sitting room with yet another member that had joined them to honour the lady's memory. Hamish had called Greg when everything had calmed down and told him what'd happened. After all that man had known the woman just as long as John and he'd been pulled into their awkward family enough times to be a part of it. He'd brought a bag of crisps that all of them, for the evening, called nibblers just because Mrs Hudson always called any snacks nibblers and they giggled at the memory. Everyone except Sherlock, who silently was curled up in his armchair with Martha on his lap.

"She always had the oddest things to talk about." Greg grinned and sipped his beer. "I once had a fifteen minutes conversation about soap. And how they'd changed the formula so it lathered much more than she was used to." John laughed cheerfully and nodded in agreement. "But the thing is, she always made it seem so interesting!" They laughed even more and Hamish smiled tiredly where he sat, eyes sore from all the crying and nose clogged by all the sniffling.

"She was a lovely woman." John sighed loudly and with a pure cheer in his voice. "A marvellous one."

"Remember when she tried to match me up with her nurse?" Hamish put in with a small chuckle and detached his leg from his knee to air it. John laughed so hard tears started to form in his eyes and Greg looked at the boy questioningly.

"What? What have I missed?" he asked and looked at John again who was about to pass out beside him. Hamish placed his leg on the floor and wiggled his stump to get rid of the sore feeling while John calmed himself down.

"She had a nurse." he started and took a sip of his soda. "A couple of years older than me. Gran thought we would make such a wonderful couple that she did everything she could think of to get us together."

"What, was she cute?" Greg asked and John started laughing again.

"It was a boy." Hamish explained and Greg bursted into a manic laughter. "Yeah. It was awkward."

"And what did the bloke do?" his uncle asked. Hamish shrugged.

"He asked me out." he answered and his father wiped his tears of both mourn and joy. "I had to convince both him and Mrs Hudson that I was straight."

"And she never believed him." John cried and fell back in his chair.

"She's been trying to fix me up with boys ever since." Hamish sighed and John started to calm down when he noticed how his son's glee smile had left him. "I'm actually gonna miss that." John sighed and got up from his chair to sit down by his son. Wrapping his arms around him he pulled him close and wiped the new tears off his cheeks.

"It's okay, handsome." he whispered and played with his waves. "I know it's hard." He sobbed miserably and glanced over at Sherlock who petted little Martha with a face like a blank canvas. He hadn't said a word in two hours and it worried them all.

"I don't even know her name." he said suddenly and looked up at John. "What was it?" Suddenly, John found himself dumbstruck. After all these years, not even he knew what Mrs Hudson's full name was and he was struck with a feeling of guilt for never finding out. Mrs Hudson had always been Mrs Hudson or granny and he'd never payed a thought to that it could be something else.

"I..."

"Martha." Sherlock said suddenly and the group at the sofa turned to him with big eyes. "Martha Louise Hudson." And suddenly John understood. Sherlock had named the dog all those years ago. He had chosen the name the moment he'd seen the little puppy and when he said that that dog would be a protector he hadn't lied. Just like Martha Louise Hudson had been their protector for so many years, so would this little Martha.

"Sherlock." he smiled and reached out to touch his arm when the man suddenly got up from the chair. He placed the dog on the warm seat and fled the room without a word and no one intended to stop him.

"He is not taking it too well, is he?" Greg asked and turned back to John and Hamish who cuddled to comfort each other without words.

"Not really." Hamish sighed and placed his stump on his uncle's leg to tease him. "Look at my stump!" he growled and wiggled his knee and Greg played along by making a disgusted face.

"Ugh! Ghastly!" he gasped and poked at it like it was something foreign and sticky. "Get it away from me." Hamish laughed and continued to wiggle it while Greg made disgusted noises.

 

 

Sherlock did not come to bed that night and John found himself, several times during the dark hours, reaching out for the empty side in his sleep only to find nothing but the cold sheets. He'd come to the conclusion that Sherlock in grief was the worst kind of Sherlock. The man had dislodged himself from the ones whom held him the closest; cringed at the thought of closeness and fled the questions of his wellbeing. It was possible that he'd left John to suffer the most. After all it was him that had to feel the fear of not being able to help. How could a man talk to a man who would not talk? Hug a man who didn't want to be touched. Sherlock refused comfort, and that was all John wanted to give. He feared for his husband.

Hamish, on the other hand, had plans. Slipping his prosthetic onto his leg, he stepped out of bed and searched blindly in the darkness for his robe before making his way down the stairs. His unruly hair made his shadows look like Peter Pan on the walls and he saw it fly down the stairs with him.

His father lied on the sofa with his back turned against the world; like it had done to him. In his mind at least. Hamish disagreed and strode over to him with a silent grace that not even a detective like him could hear and leaned over him like a noble man inspecting his treasures.

"Dad?" he questioned with a joyful voice that made the man under him cringe; but before he had a chance to tell his son to bugger off, Hamish crawled up on his side. Sherlock groaned under the weight and rolled over on his back to ease to pressure on his arm.

"Hamish?" he growled but wrapped his arms around him and let him rest his head to his shoulder. "You haven't done this since you were a child." Hamish chuckled tiredly and snuggled close.

"I still am a child sometimes." he said and Sherlock sighed happily.

"Until you decide when it's inappropriate to treat you like one." he put in and his son giggled happily while Sherlock combed his fingers through his waves. He'd missed this; his father hadn't payed this kind of attention to him for years and he felt like a seven-year-old on his chest; only twice as long and five times smarter. Wrapping his arms around his father's neck, he sighed calmly and breathed his smell that always meant safety.

"Dad?" he whispered and felt a warm hand press to his back. "Are you okay?" The air in the room turned thin and cold as Sherlock held his breath for a long time. His chest stopped moving and his limbs stiffened under Hamish's weight. All that was heard was the few cars rushing past, the pipes groaning inside the walls and Martha breathing while she slept on her blanket on the floor. And Hamish listened. Sherlock let out a big breath into his hair and moaned darkly.

"No." he confessed with a tired voice and relaxed his limbs. "No, I'm not." He stood strong despite all this. Nothing seemed to have changed expect his confession and Hamish could accept that for now. It was something at least and he tightened his arms around his neck as an awkward hug.

"You should tell pops that." he whispered. "He's worried about you, you know." He lifted his head to look at his father whose colourful eyes stared at the white roof. "Me too. We hate when we don't know what goes on in that big head of yours." Sherlock blinked and looked down on him with sad, tired eyes.

"I'm sorry about gran, handsome." he sighed and cupped the side of his son's head with his big hand. Hamish made a sad sound and nodded with the sobs stuck to the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry, too, dad." he mumbled and brought down his forehead to his bony shoulder. "But please, go to bed. I bet pops misses you." His father grumbled and held his cheek to his.

"Okay." he whispered and grasped him by his shoulders. "I will." Hamish stood up and pulled his father with him, looked at his grey strands of hair around his ears and small wrinkles around his eyes. Hamish on the other hand had grown tall, a grow spurt had grabbed its hold of him last summer and just like Sherlock, it looked like his skeleton had grown out of his skin. Those genes were quite likely from his birthmother and not John. Sherlock had laughed at that the day Hamish grew past dear John.

Sherlock smiled sadly and wrapped his arms around his son, held him tight and pressed a light kiss to his temple; a silent thank you for what his son had brought to their family.

"Good night, dad." Hamish whispered into his shoulder and Sherlock hummed.

"Good night." he whispered and unwrapped his heavy arms to take a last look at him before they parted. Hamish gave him that smile that would make any woman or man kneel before him and Sherlock gave his shoulder a friendly nudge before sneaking into the bedroom.

John wasn't asleep; but he pretended to be. Sherlock said nothing as he crawled into bed and wrapped arms and legs around him, buried his nose to the nape of his neck and sighed loudly. He loved his John and Hamish; and he'd loved Mrs Hudson. He just wished that he'd showed that old lady that more often.

John sank into his embrace and wrapped his hands around his wrists; decided to keep quiet.

 

 

 

The detective slept in the day to come and John was met by a tea drinking Hamish in the kitchen. Eyes buried in his latest book he yawned loudly before he noticed his father's entering.

"Morning." he croaked and scratched his head.

"Morning." John smiled and tied his robe before sneaking over to the water boiler to make his own cup. "Did you sleep well." Hamish shrugged and sunk down until his forehead rested on the pages of the book.

"I thought that we could pack up her photo albums today. Those are the most important after all." He lifted his head again and stretched his back. "And we should bring up her plants and..."

"Already taken care of." John sad and sat down before him. "And you shouldn't worry about such things. Me and dad will take care of that." He drank his tea and watched as his son read page after page with dangerous speed. "Have you fetched the mail?" Hamish shook his head and took a big sip of his tea before standing up and running to get it. John reached for the book on the table to look at the cover only to laugh. It wasn't the first, or last time, that Hamish had chosen a book no were near appropriate his age and he read the summary of his horror story that was his passion.

"Pops?" He looked up from the cover to see his son stand in the doorway with a white envelope in his hand that could only mean one thing.

"Already?" he gasped and flew up from his chair to join him at his side. "Sherlock! Wake up! Get out here!" Their detective dragged himself out from the bedroom with heavy steps, but the moment he laid eyes upon that envelope he lit up like a christmas star and hurried over to his side.

"Open it." he ordered and squeezed his shoulder with his long fingers. Hamish took a deep breath to prepare himself for the upcoming news. He ripped it open with quick fingers and pulled out the paper it contained. Folding it open he read the lines just as quick and let out a whimper of huge relief.

"Free." he gasped and covered his mouth with a shaking hand. He was declared cancer free. He was a healthy boy; entering manhood without his sickness dragging behind and he sighed loudly before feeling his eyes fill with heavy tears. Mrs Hudson would have been so glad over these news. "I'm free." He let out a weak sob and let go of the paper to hide his face in his hands as he cried. Two sets of arms wrapped around him and he laughed behind the awful sobs as he realised how ridiculous he was acting.

"I'm sorry." he cried. "I'm so sorry." He uncovered his face and looked down at the paper again only to laugh manically. "Jesus." Wiping his tears he placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder and grabbed the collar of his robe. "I'm done." He took a deep breath and let it out as a loud moan; letting everything go forever.

"Gran would have been so proud." John cried beside him and kissed his face. "Congratulations, handsome." Sherlock let out a whimper and held him a little closer. But he was still not letting go.

 

 

 

They celebrate the good news with their friends while at the same time grieving. Molly wrapped her arms around him and held him hard, both to comfort and celebrate, while her five-year-old daughter was eager to show the grown boy her colouring book.

"Thank you Molls." he whispered and rubbed her back to thank her for her kindness. Her daughter, Nova, suddenly noticed his weird foot and pointed with a shaking finger.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked him worriedly and looked up at Hamish with big brown eyes. He laughed and pulled up his trousers until she can see the beginning of his real leg.

"I lost my leg to a great siberian tiger who bit it off when I was fighting wolfs in Russia." he lied with a great imagination and the girl's eyes grew big as saucers.

"Really?" she gasped and stared at the boy in amazement.

"Yes." Hamish nodded and pulled down his trousers to cover it up. "I got a new leg since the other one was eaten in the wild by both tigers and wolfs." Nova lifted her head and stared at the boy with eyes big as saucers; Hamish laughed loudly at the sight and ruffled her blond hair. "I'm joking, dear. I had to have it taken because it was sick." She asked no more before she ran over to her mother to tell her about his lies. With a grunt, he heaved himself up from the floor only to be met by his dad's sharp eyes from across the room. Something was lingering behind the blue and green colours, something that made Hamish feel unease and off balance. There was something very wrong going on and he wondered if it was too late to fix.

"So." Greg spoke up and placed a warm hand upon his shoulder and Hamish tore his gaze from his father. "Have you learned to wiggle your toes yet?" Hamish laughed loudly at that. So did Greg.

"Greg?" a small voice demanded and they looked down at the little girl with her drawing pad still pressed to her chest. "Don't you have any kids?" The DI let out a small croak and held onto Hamish's shoulder with a hardening grip; his gaze disappearing as he thought about the answer to that question.

"Um.." he mumbled and curled his lips into a bothered smile that Hamish had seen many times before.

"Well he have us, doesn't he, Nova?" Hamish asked and placed his hand upon Greg's as it still gripped onto his shoulder.

"Yes, but.." the girl mumbled as her eyebrows knitted together.

"I can't ask for better than that." Greg said quickly and ruffled her hair like Hamish had done earlier and Nova looked pretty pleased with that answer as she moved on to ask other people stupid questions. With a sigh, Greg looked up at Hamish again with such fondness that the boy didn't know where to turn his eyes or what to say. But Greg did. "I really couldn't ask for better." he said before patting his arm and walking away before something overcame him. Hamish pondered about that for several minutes before it finally became clear. He had been the closest thing to a son that Greg had ever had, and it would always been like so. Before any of them thought about this to hard Hamish fell into his embrace and hugged him hard. It was a silent thank you; but not unheard.

"Wanna go to the movies this saturday?" the boy asked while patting his back, feeling utterly lucky to have a uncle like Greg.

"Is there a new horror?" the copper asked and laughed heartily.

 

 

 

They continued to clean out Mrs Hudson's flat for several days and both father and son became uncomfortably used to Sherlock silence. It had been two weeks since the passing of their landlady and still Sherlock hadn't done anything to acknowledge this. He moved around like a soulless vessel, doing what he was told to do in the flat and Hamish got the feeling that he was awkwardly trying to fit in.

Everything he did was things people had told him to do during the last couple of weeks. He went to bed every night - which was the first odd thing, he ate enough for once, but only when someone mentioned it to him. It was like he was walking around them, waiting for commands because he'd forgotten how to act.

It was the evening when Hamish returned from the movies with Greg that he realised how bad things had really gotten. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, staring up at the empty roof. This was how Hamish had left him four hours ago. With John at work there had been no one around to tell him what to do and Hamish felt sick at the thought.

"Dad?" he asked; tears burning the back of his eyes. He dropped his bag to the floor and wished he hadn't turned down Greg's offer to come up with him. Sherlock blinked once and looked down at his son with tired eyes. "Can you stop this?" Sherlock furrowed his brow and swallowed hard. "Why can't you for once be like other people and just be properly sad? Just cry for once. Get angry. Don't just lie there and look miserable! Take a case! Correct idiots online! Read something! Yell at the telly! Get out of the house! I hate seeing you like this!" Sherlock closed his eyes and gave a loud sigh that didn't mean anything. Nothing at all.

"Dad?" Hamish cried and felt the first few tears run down his hot cheeks. It hurt everywhere inside him. Seeing his father like this ripped him apart because this was not normal to any of them. Through out the years his father had always been the one who kept calm; the one who didn't see things for more than it really was. This time, though, it was different. He'd shut down.

"I'm sorry." a weak voice said suddenly and Hamish swallowed his deep breath and looked at his father with teared eyes. Sherlock was still lying with closed eyes, hands resting upon his stomach. "I'm just not... sure what to do." The man let out a shaking breath and stared emptily at the roof. The boy stared, wished that his father would cry for once; have some sort of an outbreak that could empty him of pain.

"Well." Hamish sighed and wiped his heavy tears. "D'you wanna watch a movie or something?" Sherlock blinked once and looked at his son. "We can watch some documentary if you want. Or something I like while you tell me everything that's bad about it." And there it was. A tiny smile twitching on Sherlock's lips and Hamish felt like a huge stone disappeared from his guts. It seemed real and quite eager and the boy grabbed his father's feet and threw them down on the floor to make room for himself on the sofa. "How 'bout Rose Red? I know you hate it." He said it with a tone falling quite tempting because he knew Sherlock had a passion for verbally show his hatred for bad movies. It seemed to do it this time as well.

"Alright." the detective rumbled and heaved himself up. "But stop me if I start shouting." Hamish would not.

Turning on the telly and movie, the boy quickly detached his leg to rest his sore knee. It had not quite yet come to an agreement with his prosthetic and his doctor had told him it could take years before he could wear it for a whole day without pain. With a loud huff he placed it on Sherlock's lap and the man wrapped his hands around his massive scar where there once had been a calf, shin and a foot. He rubbed it in silence and Hamish sighed loudly as his warm hands worked his aching muscles.

"Thank you." he mumbled just in time with Sherlock first evil comment about the obvious plot hole.

Hamish laughed.

So did Sherlock.

Finally.

 

 

 

Moving swiftly into the kitchen the next morning he noticed that his father tending to the many albums lying on the table. Not touching; only staring blindly while time passed without his notice.

"Dad?" he asked and pinched his sleeve between thumb and forefinger. Sherlock pursed his lips and reached out to caress the edge of the album in red leather and golden corners.

"It feels odd, doesn't it?" he questioned and flicked it open to see the notes on the first page. It was neatly presented between which dates this album foretold and both of them came to understand that these were from Hamish's first years.

"What does?"

"Choosing what of her to save and throw. We can't really hoard everything we want to save. We have to think about need, not craving." With a sigh, the detective turned to the first page and looked at the first photos showing a tiny baby covered of blankets and tubes as it rested inside an incubator.

"I can't believe how tiny I was." he giggled and saw the same squid on the picture as the one resting on his bookshelf. He flipped the page and smiled as he saw his dad cradle the little bundle while sitting in his armchair. He looked so young with his hair completely raven, his face like a porcelain doll and his spidery fingers wrapped around something so small. But most beautiful of all was the smile on his lips. Pure happiness was captured in that photo and Hamish wanted it framed and kept in his sight always.

"You were the smallest human I've ever seen." Sherlock said with the same smile twitching his lips as the memory touched his grieving thoughts. Alas, it only lasted a couple of seconds. "Your gran was the first one to hold you after us, you know. How she cried." Hamish let out a happy moan and looked at the picture of Mrs Hudson cradling him to her chest. "I don't think I've seen her so happy before. Or ever since."

"Dad?" Hamish sighed pleadingly and hooked his arm with his to pull him close. "She seemed pretty happy when you taught her how to turn on her new telly." Sherlock laughed silently at that and Hamish felt relieved. Sherlock had seemed happier lately and that was probably a proof that he was moving on. It pleased Hamish more than anything lately. Even more than his cancer results.

"Sherlock?" Both of them turned to John whom stood in their presence with a colourful shoebox in his hands. It seemed very important, telling by John's nervous expressions, and Sherlock frowned at it because something was clearly odd about this item. "I.. hm.." John placed it on the table and let out a sigh. "I found it in her closet and..."

"What is it?" Hamish asked and looked closely as John took of the lid. A big mess of several knitted socks in every colours was revealed and Hamish frowned. These socks were clearly never used, every one of them were in perfect condition, in every type of yarn and every shade of colour. But something wasn't right. Every pare were way to big for the old lady herself to wear them; clearly these socks were made for one specific person, and the size revealed exactly who.

Suddenly time seemed to stop; because to Hamish's right, a tired sob was heard. Looking to his side he saw his father slowly sinking down on the kitchen chair with his face screwed up into a painful grimace that scared Hamish more than anything he'd ever seen. Sherlock curled up and cried like a small child, arms lying heavily on his lap and head falling forward Hamish found himself very speechless.

"Sherlock?" John questioned with a voice trembling with worry, and hurried to his side. He wrapped his arms around him and let him bury his face to the nape of his neck. The detective sobbed loudly to his soft skin and lifted his arms to claw at his back as the sorrow nestled deeper. "It's okay." But Sherlock shook his head and gulped for air. Shaking painfully before his family, John and Hamish knew better than to say a thing. Without a sound, he snuck up behind his shaking father and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rested his head to his nest of curls that he once had twinned between tiny fingers and felt the tears fill his eyes. Who knew that a box of sock in every colour would be the mans breaking point.

"It's okay, dad." he whispered and sniffled. "It'll be okay."

"I didn't like the colours!" Sherlock sobbed loudly into John's chest. "I saw her knitting away and I always questioned her why she choose such horrid colours." He whimpered loudly and let out a broken whine. "I was always so rude!"

"Well, she wasn't the nicest lady either, was she." John joked and rubbed his chest. "You had your arguments but you never actually manage to anger each other, did you?" Sherlock cried even louder and clawed at John's back like a purring cat.

"Remember that time she yelled at you for cleaning her flat." Hamish giggled behind his tears. "You'd actually done a huge effort to apologise for the smell of your experiments and she yelled at you for fifteen minutes about how wrong it was to go through someone's personal stuff." Sherlock whimpered. "You just tried to be nice. She was mad at you for days while actually cleaning our flat." Sherlock laughed, feeling somewhat relieved by that memory and he dried his tears to John's shoulder.

"She was a silly, old lady." he sobbed and suddenly he could understand that evening when John, Hamish and Greg joked about the lady just hours after her death. It eased the pain, honoured her memory by thinking about the little things she did to make another one happy. Maybe it was a good thing. It felt like it at least.

"Silly indeed." John smiled and pulled back to pepper Sherlock's face with light kisses. "And we'll all miss her." Sherlock gasped for air for a moment before he suddenly cried even harder. There were so many things his family didn't know about Mrs Hudson; how much she'd actually done for him throughout the years. She'd taken him in like he was her son, cared for him like no other, intrigued him to take things further with John when they were no more than mates. She'd been the reason for so many things in Sherlock's life and now she was no longer in it. It hurt. All the way into the bone. Oh, how he missed her.

"I want her back." he sobbed like a wee child. "How could she just leave?" With a huge, tired sigh, John lifted his husband from the uncomfortable chair and led him into the sitting room. Hamish waited for a moment, not really sure if he should follow or not as it didn't seem like it was his task to comfort his father right now. This was their time, and Hamish sneaked out to the hallway to retreat to his room when he caught a glimpse he hadn't seen in years. On the sofa, his fathers sat together, arms wrapped around one another and John whispered soothing words into his raven curls. Hamish couldn't do more than smile as he climbed his stairs to his room. Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would feel better after this.

 

 

Sherlock wore bright, yellow, itchy socks on Mrs Hudson's funeral.

It didn't go well with his black suit and shirt but no one dared to question it. John held his hand as they in silence followed the cream white coffin though the cemetery to the place where Mrs Hudson would be sent for her final rest. Hamish walked on his other side, clutching a bouquet of yellow tulips in on hand and Sherlock's coat sleeve in the other. Tears rolled down his cheeks and any other day he would probably feel ashamed; but not today.

There weren't many people joining them in the walk. Molly and Nova was there; both of them dressed in black dresses with velvet shoes. Mycroft had pulled himself from work and stood by their side. He hadn't said anything inappropriate so far but that was perhaps because Hamish had warned him not to open his mouth unless it felt absolutely necessary.

Of course Greg was there. With his hand gripping the boy's shoulder they watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground, he sighed loudly as he placed the other one on Sherlock's shaking back.

"It's okay, lad." he whispered and neither Hamish or Sherlock knew who of them he was talking to. It didn't matter either; because deep down both of them knew that Greg was really speaking to them both.

Martha Louise Hudson was laid to rest at two a'clock, august the third, in the most beautiful weather. Sun was standing high on the sky, shining upon the coffin as Hamish tossed the tulips upon its lid. Rose after rose was placed while people payed their respect one last time and Hamish could no longer hold back his sobs. They tore up his throat without shame, tears burned down his cheeks; and before he had time to realise how hideous he must look, he was pulled into a warm embrace. Sherlock held him tight and buried his nose in his curls so even he could hide his heavy tears.

"I'm being silly." Hamish cried and pulled at his suit with his spidery fingers.

"No, you're not." Sherlock whispered and squeezed his shoulder. "Of course you're not."

Hamish was smearing snot all over his father's suit but none of them cared right now. The suit wasn't as important as giving his son the small amount of comfort he was able to give right now; he could smear how much snot he wanted onto him.

"I'm gonna miss her so much!" he wept and felt Greg's firm hand rub his neck.

"Me too, love." Sherlock whispered with a tired voice. Hamish turned his head to take a deep breath and looked down in the deep grave to see the pile of red roses and the hint of yellow at the bottom. It was a beautiful place Sherlock had picked; beneath the heavy branches of an oak tree with just enough sun to shine upon her during the morning. All that was missing now was her stone which they'd picked together. A marble stone, her name in gold and a dove resting on the left corner. Mrs Hudson would have loved it.

"Let's go home." John said calmly and wiped his tears with his sleeve. "We'll have some tea and cake."

 

 

They sat around the table in a comfortable silence. Hamish looked through the old photo albums that he yet hadn't touched and smiled every time he saw himself in the arms of the old lady; or any of them to be honest. He saw pictures of himself taking his first steps, and not much different from that time seven years ago when he had to learn it a second time, he saw his papa holding his little hands as he stumbled forward on unsteady legs. There were pictures of him and Greg, giggling and playing and Hamish smiled. The first memory he really had about Greg was from when he was three. He was still recovering from a horrible fall down the stairs, that had left a scar to the back of his head, and Greg had visited with a bunch of presents. It was also because of him Hamish had such an interest for horror.

He turned the page and saw a picture of himself with a knitted, green octopus. There was a faint memory about it and a familiar smell made itself reminded for just a second. Suddenly he knew that that squid once had meant much to him.

Then he saw something odd. A white envelope was glued to the bottom of the page and with careful fingers he pulled it loose and turned it over.

"Dad?" he gasped as he saw the handwriting and looked up from the familiar handwriting. Sherlock lifted head and tore his gaze from the uneaten cake on his plate. "It's got your names." The detective frowned, looked at the envelope with tired eyes before reaching out for it. John leaned over to see both their names scribbled on the front and he placed a warm hand on Sherlock's thigh as his skilled fingers tore the letter open.

 

'To my dearest Sherlock and John

I do hope my leaving hasn't caused you to much trouble. I know I probably haven't left my flat in the cleanest state nor in the latest fashion so I wont blame you if you give most of my belongings away. There will always be someone out there in the need of an used armchair or a set of pots and pans.

I don't have a fortune to leave you, but as I am now gone at least I can give you the comfort of home once more. Take care of Baker Street and each other. May the new space be for your use as it is now yours. Life had been good inside these wall and I wish for you to continue that good life even though I'm not there to serve you the morning tea or fill the flats with the smell of fresh made cookies.

You two have given me more than I ever thought life would bring me. You made me a mother even though I could never watch you grow up. You made me a grandmother the day you adopted little Hamish. I never thought I would hear a child's cries in this house but you gave me that and so much more.

I love you like my sons and grandson and I hope I have given you as much as you have given me. Don't cry over my broken body because my soul will live on as long as my memory is cherished. And I do hope you cherish it.

Take care of your daddies, little Hamish. And make sure Sherlock eats well now when I am not there to remind him myself. Also, I do hope your results come back clean. Life has been rough enough for you to go through all that again and I'll punish who ever is in charge in the afterlife when I meet him or her. I hope you grow up and take after the best of your fathers. You will be just as astonishing as the both of them

Your landlady, Martha Louise Hudson'

 

Sherlock crumpled between them, his face scrunched up and tears ran down his cheeks. But these wasn't the tears of pain. These were tears of adoration and happiness. His landlady, the woman who took him in and loved him like a son had trusted him to leave him everything she'd ever owned. Sherlock let out a huge breath to calm himself and Hamish wrapped his arms around his neck and smiled. Even in the afterlife Mrs Hudson kept an eye on them and it felt like a relief that the old lady actually had left them all a couple of lines so they could get real closure.

Sherlock sighed and wiped his tears with his sleeve, let the letter sail to the table as wrapped his arms around his son and husband and kissed their noses. He smiled, blinked away the tears and took the hard decision to move on without his motherly rock in his life.

"You're already astonishing, Hamish." he said happily and carded his fingers through his hair.

"We better cherish her memory." John grinned. "I'm pretty sure that was a warning."

Hamish laughed at that.

So did Sherlock.


End file.
